


Dawn's Beginning to Storm's End

by LustOnMyFingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Love, Magic, R plus L equals J, Reunions, Revenge, Romance, Sex, Siblings, Smut, The Long Night, War for the Dawn, Young Love, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: As Arya awaits the arrival of her brother Jon and Queen Daenerys at Winterfell, she goes over her 'list' as she remembers her fallen loved ones, vowing to avenge those she's lost along the way. As the party finally arrives, she spots the unmistakable blue eyes of someone she'd already mourned the loss of long ago. (Recent Import from FF, Originally Published: Oct 24)





	1. The Ghost Beyond His Embrace

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be an explicit excuse for some Gendrya smut, I assure you. However, the first chapter is going to be a bit morbid. Apologies in advance! The way in which I depict Arya might very well bother some folks. If that is the case, thanks for trying it out and no hard feelings if it's not for you! Otherwise, consider this is a preemptive strike against the lukewarm reunion we're almost sure to get out of next season.

 

 

 

 

Arya roamed Winterfell all through the night, dipping in and out of her room. She'd lie on top of the bed for a few moments, only to get right back up and find another area of the castle to pace. After an hour or two, she'd return again to her room. Trapped in an endless loop of restless and nervous energy.

 

Jon was finally expected back in the north as early as tomorrow. _How could she sleep?_ Remembering her brother's scruffy brooding face had been one of the things that helped her bear the miserable life she'd lead since leaving Winterfell. It was one of the few parts of herself she'd refused to give up. That, and Needle. Though to Arya, they went hand in hand. Jon's face had been the first image that had popped into her head when she took a knife to the stomach. And it helped aid her in the darkness as she fought for her life, and for her freedom.

 

No matter how far apart Arya had seemed to separate from the body she'd inhabited, Jon had acted like an anchor that kept her afloat in the sea of anger she'd nearly drowned in. He was largely responsible for the humanity she'd retained. Arya hated that she'd lost all hope in Sansa's safety, or in Bran's. Assuming they'd succumbed to the cruelty of Westeros, as so many others have. Unfortunately, she'd been right to lose faith in Rickon's survival. But Jon, she'd never lost hope in him. Ever since her old friend Hot Pie had informed her that her bastard brother fought for Winterfell and reclaimed it from the Boltons, she finally felt something other than _hate_ driving her. And it was more powerful than even her desire to kill Cersei.

 

Which she still planned to do. But _not_ before seeing Jon.

 

Pushing her brother from her mind, she began to focus on her list. First, she'd put the _Lion_ out of her misery. Every night she fell asleep dreaming Cersei's smug look neutralizing as the pull of death claimed her. In Arya's mind, she'd killed the bitch hundreds of ways. Strangling the life out of her with her bare hands, perhaps stealing the face of the twin brother she'd been fucking. _Seems poetic_ , Arya thought. But not enough pain, _no_. Slitting her throat with her Valyrian dagger? _No. Too easy_. She thought of Petyr Baelish begging for his life, and though it gave her a rush, he died much too soon, much too easily. At Sansa's insistence, of course. Well, Sansa wouldn't be around to beg for mercy when Arya came for _Cersei Lannister_.

 

The bitch needed to _suffer_. She needed to be _butchered_. Just as she'd intended for Lady, Sansa's sweet wolf, who she'd ordered to have gutted like a pig. _Yes_. Arya liked this idea, very much. She began to stomp as she paced the ramparts, the snow crunching under the weight of her heavy footfalls.

 

 _The Mountain_ , she scoffed. She wasn't afraid of his size, she would happily accept the challenge of finding a suitable death for the abomination of a man. She thought of Sandor briefly, _much too fondly_. Part of her would always regret leaving him for dead. The other part of her remembered poor, sweet Mycah and his hair the color of flames as he _danced_ with her, the sound of their sticks clanging as they practiced by the water. Sighing, she'd decided that fire would be a fitting death for the likes of Gregor Clegane. She imagined the way his skin might pop and bubble as the flames licked him. An eye for an eye, a burn for a burn, it was the least she could do for an old _friend_.

 

 _Ilyn Payne_. The man who took Ned's head from him. Arya wanted to slowly carve away at his neck, around the circumference, keeping him alive as long as possible as she sliced away, his heart pushing his blood from his mangled neck as the life drained from his eyes. She began grinning ear to ear, nearly laughing at the thought.

 

 _Thoros of Myr. Beric Dondarrion_. These heathens also deserved fiery deaths for selling Gendry off to the _Red Woman_ like produce in the back of her wagon. She'd felt a stabbing sensation in her chest as she remembered his frightened expression after they tied him up, off to sacrifice him to their _evil_ god. Feeling ambitious, Arya added another name to her list.

 

" _R'hllor!_ " she shouted from atop the ramparts, her voice echoing against the emptiness of the castle walls, "Even the afterlife cannot protect you!" In death, she vowed to destroy even the evil god who dared to accept Gendry's life in exchange for whatever twisted magic his followers dabbled in. _Disgusting_ , she thought, _Cowards, the whole lot of them!_

 

She tried to shake the thought of Gendry's face from her mind, feeling guilty at the frequency with which she thought of him, even after all of these years. She missed his voice, _m'lady_ , he'd call her, unceasing despite her protests. She fondly remembered his laugh and the way his eyes narrowed with amusement as she pushed him into the dirt. Even the way his muscles danced beneath his skin as he twisted his body, resisting her sword-fighting advice as he tested his newly fashioned weapon. The clarity of his blue eyes as he confessed to her his desire to have a family of his own. His mere absence never failed to bring a sharp, stinging sensation right through her heart.

 

 _I can be your family_ , the sound of her own vulnerability echoed in her mind.

 

Rather than let herself get sad, she got _angry_ , "You should've come with me!" she shouted to no one, standing in the snow completely alone. She growled, vowing to give the _Red Witch_ the worst death of all... She would save that kill for _last_ so that she could relish in her pain and misery. _We will meet again_ , she had promised Arya. Hers would be the blue eyes Arya would shut forever, just as she'd predicted.

 

"I _will_ avenge you," she whispered to the wind.

 

Before she could even fantasize about her preferred torture methods, a terrified-looking guard approached her.

 

"M'lady?" he began. His words were like a blow to the stomach. _The right words, the wrong voice_ , she thought, remembering how much better it sounded with _his_ Flea Bottom accent.

 

" _What?_ " She spat angrily. Now was not a good time.

 

"I'd heard shoutin' from the ground, ar-are you _alright_?"

 

Arya bit back laughter, _as if_ this guard could protect her had she not have been!

 

"I'm _fine_ ," she barked. "Any word from the scouts on my brother's estimated arrival?"

 

" _N-no_ , m'lady," he cautiously stuttered. She was used to this behavior. Most of the guards around Winterfell had been scared of her after the execution of Lord Baelish. _No matter_.

 

"Stop calling me _m'lady_ ," she demanded. She couldn't bear to hear it again, at least not from this bumbling guard, and certainly not after remembering her dear friend and the terrible way in which he'd been taken from the world.

 

"What should I call you?"

 

" _Nothing_. Next time, just say your piece and be done with it," she ordered him, agitated. She pushed past him and back toward the keep, knocking his arm with her shoulder.

 

. . .

 

Arya awoke shivering. Even inside her darkened room, she could see her breath before her. Every day it grew colder. Her head began pounding nearly as angrily as the pounding at her door. She rubbed her temples, trying to sift through the grogginess enough to answer whoever had come calling. _How long had she been out?_

 

" _What?_ " she shouted at her door, rubbing her arms in an effort to generate warmth.

 

" _The Queen_ will be here any moment, Arya," Sansa cried through the locked door. Arya could hear the disdain in her voice, still unhappy about Jon's decision to kneel to Daenerys Targaryen. "Get out of bed and get down to the gate to greet our brother."

 

After sprinting to her door, Arya swung it open to see Sansa already rushing down the hallway. She shouted after her, "Why didn't you send someone to wake me?"

 

"I sent _several_ people to wake you," she growled, before breaking into a sprint, her skirts billowing behind her like crashing waves.

 

 _Oh_ , Arya thought, feeling a bit guilty that her sister had to stomp her way up to her room to retrieve her. She'd had no memory of even falling asleep. Quickly, she smoothed her hair out, pulling it into a tight bun and out of her face. Slipping her belt around her waist, she equipped Needle on her right side, her dagger to the left. With whatever energy she could muster, she hit the ground running as fast as she could, ready to finally reunite with Jon.

 

Once outside, she realized she'd spent the better part of the day asleep and evening had been fast approaching. Arya examined the faces of everyone pouring in through the gates. _Where is he?_ She waited impatiently as men of all different shapes, sizes and colors marched past the castle walls. She thought of the cultural landscape of Braavos in that moment, impressed with the Dragon Queen's ability to unite people of all backgrounds, from literally all over the world. Arya had been terribly curious about the Dothraki in particular, as well as the Unsullied. Everyone in the north had seemed perturbed by the foreign armies. Arya, on the other hand, might finally be surrounded by other fighters closer to her caliber. Aside from _Brienne_ , that is.

 

 _Still no Jon_ , she thought, feeling a mixture of disappointment and worry as she kept scanning faces, taking note of the worried expressions of the northerners around her as they likewise watched the Queen's party arrive. The north had been quite homogenous, often mistrustful of even Westerosi from south of the Neck. Of course, after the _Red Wedding_ , as it came to be known, Arya could hardly blame them. However, any stranger who considered themselves enemies of Cersei Lannister had been alright by her, no matter how far away their home had been.

 

Suddenly, a figure wandered through the gates who towered over everyone else in the vicinity. At first, she assumed it was Brienne until she saw the darkness of the hair the closer the figure had gotten to where she'd stood. _It couldn't possibly be_ , she reminded herself, _I left him for dead!_

 

Squinting to be sure, she'd taken note of the giant man's miffed expression and his air of discomfort. The man's mouth was twisted shut in a tight grimace as if biting back insults he'd had ready to hurl at anyone who dared to challenge him. Realization washed over her—the graveyard of her loved ones had not been as extensive as she'd assumed. Even those she'd already mourned the loss of had been here, floating around Winterfell like ghosts. Sansa. Brandon. _Sandor_.

 

Before she could even consider her actions, her feet had carried her over to him.

 

" _Hound!_ " She'd shouted with glee using every last bit of air in her lungs, " _You're alive!_ "

 

And before he could even react, she took to the air, her small frame colliding against his barrel chest. His name had long since been crossed from her list. He'd paid the price. She could feel several broken pieces of her heart aligning with the edges they'd cracked away from. Leaving Sandor for dead had been one of the toughest decisions of her life, and though she didn't quite regret it, she couldn't deny the happiness she felt as she wrapped herself around him for all to see. Tact was never at the top of Arya's priorities, but the world was ending, after all. And _soon_. Winter has finally come, just as her father had always promised.

 

Before she got lost in her embrace with Sandor, she remembered she still had yet to greet _Jon_. She hoped she could keep her tears in when her arms found their way around her brother again. Hoping to impress him with her newfound strength, she'd been anxiously waiting to finally show him all the work she'd put into honing her skill with the sword he'd gifted her as a girl. It was because of Jon that she had been alive today. It was because of Jon that she could never fully lose herself.

 

She opened her eyes. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

 

 _Another ghost_.

 

_How could it be?_

 

He'd even _aged_. He _must_ be real. But _how?_

 

Standing before her, a nervous frown crept across his face. Her heart skipped a beat as his clear blue eyes locked onto hers.

 

_Gendry._

 


	2. A Girl and Her Needle

" _Hound!_ " She'd shouted, " _You're alive!_ "

 

Gendry's stomach dropped. It was unmistakable. That was _her_ voice. _Arya_. His dear friend, his little _lady_. She had been alive. _Gods_ , after all this time, she was _alive!_

 

The sound of her laughter rang in his ears like music. The squeakiness of her pubescent voice had vanished. _Of course_ , he thought to himself. It had been _years_. She was a woman, now. The realization made his palms prick with sweat. Trying to compose himself, his mind began to wander. He'd been certain they'd never see each other again, that she'd likely been dead. After returning to King's Landing, he'd heard all about the Red Wedding around Flea Bottom. His stomach churned as everyone gossiped and laughed at the contemptible demise of Robb Stark and his men. Gendry's mind suddenly went as blank as his expression. All he could do was listen to his heartbeat in his ears. _Calm down_ , he chided himself.

 

Gendry then realized that though she'd been shouting, her voice sounded _joyful_. The last time he'd seen Arya and Sandor together, he had to wrangle the girl to the ground to prevent her from rushing him with a dagger. To his surprise, Arya leapt into the man's arms. She'd locked her forearms around his neck, and her legs wrapped 'round his waist. The giant man bellowed with laughter as she embraced him. _How in seven hells had he found his way into the girl's good graces?_ Finally, Arya's face had been elevated enough to glimpse. _Gods, she's gorgeous_ , he could tell, even though her eyes were clenched shut.

 

His heart began to pound against his ribs. It felt stunted with each beat as if clamped inside someone's fist, sending a jolt of pain through him with each thud. He'd had no idea just how much he'd missed his friend until he'd seen her smiling ear to ear in Sandor's embrace. Seeing her legs struggling to wrap around the man's thick trunk of a body, he felt another jolt ripple through him. _Jealousy_ . Before he'd had the time to process any of these emotions, his mind flashed images of her slender body wrapped around his _own_ body the same way. His hands suddenly ached to hold her in his arms. _His lady_.

 

Finally, she peeled her eyes open, a few tears clung to her lashes. Their gazes met briefly. Gendry gulped, he pressed his lips together to stop them from quivering. He wanted to call out to her, to shout her name, to greet his oldest friend. But no words came to him. Before he knew it, her gaze had already swept right over him and onto her brother, Jon, inducing a deep, cold shiver straight through him.

 

 _It's alright_ , he reminded himself. _You're older, you're no longer a boy. Even your hair is shorter. She doesn't recognize you, but she will. She must..._

 

" _Jon!_ " she cried, pushing off of Sandor's chest, causing the large man to stumble back a bit, still laughing. With impressive speed, she'd managed to materialize in front of her brother, wrapping her arms around his waist, squeezing him so hard he cried out before likewise roaring with laughter.

 

" _Arya_ ," Jon slid his arms around the girl's shoulders, his eyes swimming with unshed tears, "You _are_ alive."

 

Much like Sandor, Jon's laughter sounded nearly _hysterical_. It was clear Arya had meant a great deal to many people. _How could she not?_

 

Gendry gawked at the pair as Jon's hand wandered down Arya's right side. Another pang of jealousy overcame him, though he'd known full well Jon had been in love with _Daenerys_. There hadn't been a single person in the presence of the Queen and her Warden without that fact being clear, as much as they'd tried to hide it. So why was he touching his sister so _intimately?_ Gendry instinctively balled his fists.

 

Jon's hand had finally found its target. Arya's scabbard.

 

With an almost unnatural swiftness, Arya had jumped backward, unsheathing her sword with her left hand, bringing it to the underside of Jon's chin. The tip of the blade left an indentation in his beard, though she was careful not to draw blood. She'd held the stance of a proper fighter, an arm coolly tucked behind her back, the sword perfectly balanced in her grasp. Every inch of the blade had been under her full control. A smile drew itself across the length of Jon's face, as wide as his lips would allow.

 

"I _thought_ that was Needle!" he said, throwing his arms up as if to yield. "After all these years..."

 

Arya stepped back a few paces, flourishing her sword several times in her left hand, twirling the hilt between her fingers as it spun. Always threatening to slice either herself, or Jon, but always coming up just short of it. It was hypnotic watching Needle whirl in circles to either side as she spun. The sword had been an extension of her body, she'd been in complete control of its every movement like another appendage. Before Gendry knew it, Arya had sheathed Needle once more. Squaring her shoulders to face Jon, her expression dripped with confidence. Even the Queen's jaw hung open in awe at the small girl's spectacle.

 

"Freshly whetted, no less!" Arya laughed, teasing him, "I suggest you not try to disarm me again, _Jon_."

 

Though she'd been making jokes, Gendry could see how much the reunion had affected the girl by the glassiness of her grey eyes.

 

"Disarm you? I wouldn't _dare_. Mind showing me that dagger of yours?"

 

Arya unsheathed the ornate dagger, handing it off to her brother for inspection. " _Valyrian steel_ ," he said, flipping the dagger several times as he inspected the rippled steel. " _That's my girl!_ Where'd you get this?"

 

"That's a story for another time," she said sternly. Gendry couldn't help but wonder, himself, as he eavesdropped.

 

Briefly, he thought of the first time they'd ever spoken. Arya had been just a girl, or rather, just a _boy_ , so far as he knew. Gendry accused her of having stolen that very sword. Now that he'd known Jon had been the one who'd gifted it to her, he understood her attachment to it. They seemed awfully close. He suddenly felt thankful the topic of Arya hadn't come up in all the time he'd spent traveling with Jon.

 

The man he'd trusted most in the world, Ser Davos, had believed in Jon. That's all Gendry needed to know in order to side with the man, too. And if that meant serving Queen Daenerys, so be it. In truth, Jon had been the first true friend Gendry had made in years. Suddenly, all of the feelings that had stirred within him at the mere sight of Arya had felt wildly inappropriate. Trying his best to push the thoughts from his mind, Gendry thought it best not to offend Jon by having improper feelings for his sister. _Not that it mattered_ , he reminded himself. Arya hadn't recognized him, anyway.

 

The realization that she hadn't even looked his way a second time hadn't been lost on him. His blood ran cold at the thought. Even though he'd assumed she died alongside her brother at the Red Wedding, he'd thought of the girl often enough, particularly since he knew so few people. To know that after all these years, she couldn't bring herself to even recognize his face had been pure agony. He waited patiently a few more moments, hoping he'd finally catch her eye...

 

Instead, Arya shifted her attention to the silver-haired Queen who'd been close at Jon's side. She knelt before Daenerys, " _My Queen_. If my brother has pledged to fight for you, then you have my full support. I am yours to command in the war to come."

 

Gendry was done eavesdropping. Hoping to ease the sickness in the pit of his stomach, he placed his hand over his abdomen as he wandered through the crowd of people. He searched for the only other person he trusted, Ser Davos. The man's smile died as soon as he'd noticed how ill the boy looked, all color drained from his face.

 

"Are you alright, Gendry?" Davos asked.

 

"It's all the travel, or maybe the cold. Bit hard to take after spendin' most of my life in the forge," he smiled weakly. "Is there any way I could be shown to my room, or wherever it is I'll be stayin'?"

 

"Wait here, I'll find ya someone who can help," Davos replied, already wandering off and chattering away with the residents of Winterfell, asking for assistance.

 

Gendry looked back to Jon and Daenerys. They'd been talking to a red-haired girl he assumed was Sansa Stark, judging by Jon's warm smile as they spoke. Arya was gone. He'd glanced around the growing crowd of people, unable to spot her. Even though he'd expected nothing out of Winterfell aside from preparing more weapons for the coming war, he couldn't help drown in the disappointment that washed over him.

 

After several moments of wallowing in self-pity while waiting on Davos, a young girl emerged from a nearby corridor. Wandering toward him with a frighteningly intense gaze, the girl had on a long, frumpy robe that hadn't fit her very well. She had been almost too clean and too attractive for a servant girl. Or so he'd _assumed_ , he hadn't actually known many servants. Suddenly, he felt like he'd been imposing by asking for a room so early in the evening.

 

"M'lord," she bowed slightly, her full lips peeled back as she spoke, "Let me show you to your room."

 

"I'm not a _lord_ ," he corrected her.

 

Gendry looked back to Davos, who'd still been meandering through the crowd and charming anyone who would talk to him. _Odd_ , he thought, as she'd come from the opposite direction altogether. Even so, he chose to follow behind her as they headed toward one of the larger towers. The girl swayed her hips suggestively, stealing a few glances of Gendry as she escorted him. He tried his best to avert his gaze, though it was highly distracting.

 

They'd silently wandered through a few halls. The further they walked, the more spaced out the doors had become. _These rooms are too big to be mine_ , he thought.

 

"You sure we're headed the right way?" he asked nervously.

 

" _Yes_ ," the woman said, hanging on the last letter of the word in a way that made her sound like a snake.

 

Finally, they'd made it to what he'd assumed was his door. She pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked it for him.

 

"Thank you," he simply said, pushing the door open.

 

Before he could enter, the woman tugged at his thin leather vest, twirling her fingers around the laces, "If there's _anything_ else you'd like..."

 

Gendry frowned as he looked into her large, dark brown eyes. It's not that she was unattractive, he just had zero interest in her. He hadn't had interest in _any_ woman after what Melisandre had done to him. When he looked at her face, he felt nothing at all. They hadn't known each other whatsoever, there was no reason to trust her. He just wanted to be alone.

 

"I don't mean to offend you, but I'd really like to just get some rest. It's been a long trip."

 

" _As you wish_ ," the girl spat, clearly offended. Gendry only shook his head. He'd tried his best to turn her down as politely as he could manage. He wasn't about to feel guilty that she'd taken it personally. Sighing, he entered the room, closing the door behind him.

 

Once he turned back around, he'd noticed the room was clearly already in use. It had been disorderly, a wardrobe half-open with furs and linens unevenly hanging off of the shelves inside, and leather garments strewn across the desk underneath a _whetstone_. Even the bed had been unmade. Gendry did a double-take, coming to the same conclusion twice. This room was in use, and it had been much too large for a simple blacksmith. He'd better leave.

 

As he turned, his balance immediately faltered as Arya leaned against the door with arms folded.

 

"Why are you in my room? _How_ are you in my room? This door was _locked_ ," she began whipping out accusations faster than he could process any of it.

 

" _M'lady_ , please forgive me. I swear it was a mistake," he finally managed to say, stunned.

 

Arya's eyes fluttered closed for a brief instant before placing a hand on the hilt of her sword. She threatened him, "I ought to stick you with the _pointy end_ for presuming to come into my room this way. _Uninvited!_ "

 

She headed straight for him as she pulled the door open behind her. He didn't know whether to be terrified or excited by the prospect. Arya was so close to him he could smell the leather she wore. He closed his eyes as he took in the scent.

 

"Don't let it happen again. Next time you won't be walking out of here. You'll be _crawling_."

 

Gendry clenched his eyes shut further. He believed it. But more importantly, had she recognized him? _Should he even bother speaking up?_ It felt like he'd already missed his opportunity.

 

" _Leave_." She commanded him a final time.

 

Without any further hesitation, he silently obeyed her and scurried out into the hall. As soon as the door shut behind him, he leaned against the wall, feeling utterly alone, dejected, and unsure what to do with himself, now.

 


	3. As M'lady Commands

Arya waited a moment, her heart racing as she pressed herself against her door. She took a few quick breaths to recover, managing to pull off her act flawlessly—having both tested him and lured him to her room. She unraveled her hair from her tight bun, carefully listening to the hallway beyond, knowing full well he was still out there. _Waiting._  She removed her belt and her weapons, setting them on her table. She slipped her fingers into her hair as she walked toward her wardrobe, shaking it out in front of the small clouded mirror inside. _Better_ , she thought.

 

Moving back toward the entrance to her room, she pulled the door open, tugging down on it with enough weight to ensure an audible squeak as she did so. She listened carefully. He still hadn't moved. When she closed her eyes, she could hear his exasperated breaths.

 

" _Gendry_ ," she whispered as low as she could manage, but enough to ensure her invitation would reach his ears.

 

She clenched her eyes harder as if it helped her to hear better. His breath quickened, and she finally heard him shuffle. Very cautiously.

 

Arya had usually been completely in tune with her body, as a fighter, it was necessary. When her heart began beating erratically, she felt a combination of worry and delight. Concern that it was something she had no control over, and sheer delight for the very same reason. There'd been many times over the years that she truly felt she'd lost herself somewhere along the way. She'd felt more in this moment, here with Gendry, than she had in years. Even more than reuniting with _Jon_ , her favorite person in the world. Of course, she loved Jon, but she knew now her love for Gendry was very different. She'd had no idea just how different until she locked eyes with him. She'd had to look away simply to keep her composure.

 

Gendry finally appeared in her doorway, though he didn't dare enter. He looked positively frightened.

 

"I'm unarmed," she assured him, lifting her hands up as she gave him a spin.

 

Arya willed him in with her gaze. She didn't _want_ to have to verbally invite him inside, she wanted him to come inside on his own. Arya had to know he wasn't afraid of her.

 

Finally, his feet began to carry him closer. _Much_ too slowly. Arya's heart began to go haywire. She felt as though her body jumped with each thud, and she wondered briefly whether he could somehow tell. _He couldn't hear it too, could he?_ She could hear little else. Only after he'd made his way within arm's reach of her, had his fear subsided.

 

" _Arry_ ," he breathed, looking down at her with blue eyes the color of a cloudless sky. Now that he was mere inches away, she'd seen how much he'd aged. His hair was shorter, too, and it suited him. He no longer looked boyish at all. Suddenly, Arya felt a bit self-conscious that she still looked so small, so young. Though hearing him call her by her old nickname had made her shiver, it also made her feel a bit childish when all she wanted was for him to see her as the woman she'd grown into.

 

"Is _that_ any way to address a Lord's daughter?" she asked breathlessly, doing her best to entice him with only her eyes. She'd never once attempted to _actually_ seduce a man before. Only ever in the context of luring them into some deadly trap. She hoped she'd been doing it correctly.

 

" _M'lady_ ," he smiled, reaching his hand out cautiously, intertwining the tips of his fingers with hers.

 

Arya shuddered from the slight touch, her irises danced behind her lids as her eyes fell closed. Realizing only in that moment the true power he already had over her, she hadn't yet decided whether or not that made her uncomfortable. Though, she allowed it to continue, delighting in the lightheaded sensation she felt as her blood coursed through her.

 

As she opened her eyes, she'd noticed his drunken expression and the way his mouth had parted just so. He wanted to kiss her. She wanted to kiss him. And yet, something prevented her from just going for it. She'd killed more men than she could remember, but somehow, _kissing_ one gave her pause. Arya leaned into him, hoping to make her intentions clearer. _Kiss me_ , she willed him with her mind. _Kiss me, damn it!_

 

His hot breath was on her mouth. She'd been trapped in the small, humid environment he'd provided with each exhale. What was he waiting for? _Kiss me_ , she chanted inside her head. " _Kiss me_ ," she begged, her mind shoving the words right to her lips against her will. Her body and mind, no longer hers to command. Keeping her eyes closed, she nervously awaited his response.

 

" _As m'lady commands_ ," he cooed, gently wrapping both hands around her neck.

 

As his fingers found her skin, she felt a tingling sensation emanating outward from her neck, splintering both north and south as it traveled over her scalp and down her back. She cried in delight from the mere sensation of his fingertips. As he pressed his wet lips to hers and she cried again, this time, muffled by his mouth.

 

Gendry massaged her lips with his, running his fingertips along the base of her neck and up into her dark, tangled hair. He opened his mouth slowly. Arya realized he'd been trying to lead her, and she quickly complied, parting her lips as his tongue explored them. She'd never kissed anyone before, and she had no idea whether or not she was any good at it. Though, Gendry was lucky she'd been capable of _any_ sort of response with the way he'd been overwhelming her already.

 

Before she knew it, his tongue had slipped right into her mouth, colliding with hers at first, but soon they'd eased into a nice rhythm. Unsure how she felt about this brand new, wet, slithering sensation, she began more readily exploring his mouth, too. She'd become almost competitive as their tongues danced together. Gendry increased the speed and strength of his tongue's movements. Arya hadn't come this far just to lose this battle, _oh, no_.

 

Soon their heads were bobbing side to side, their mouths creating smacking sounds as their wet lips broke suction. Arya grasped his shoulders, digging her nails into his clothing as if to keep a grip on him. She began struggling for breath, fighting against his mouth harder with hers. Gendry's hands began moving down from her neck, over her back, before firmly grasping her hips. Staggering as his hands wandered over her body, she moaned into his mouth before breaking away.

 

"That's not _fair_ ," she breathed, trying her best to uncross her eyes so she could look at him.

 

He'd been both perplexed and worried by her words, "What's not fair, m'lady?"

 

"I was _winning_ until you used your hands," she explained, trying to catch her breath. His grip on her hips loosened, his fingers still lingering on her leather doublet as he tried to pull himself away from her.

 

" _Winning?_ " he asked, her explanation hadn't cleared up an ounce of his confusion, "What do you mean?"

 

Arya suddenly realized that hadn't been his intention at all. She felt a bit silly, "I just mean that you distracted me. By touching me."

 

"I'm sorry, m'lady," he said, completely removing his hands from her.

 

" _No_ , don't do that," she whined, grabbing his hands and placing them back onto her hips, pressing them harder into her. She then placed hers on his hips, as well.

 

Gendry chuckled, "You're _still_ a pain in my ass."

 

"I'll show you a pain in the ass," she laughed, running her hands down to his backside, boldly pinching his butt hard with both hands.

 

" _Arya!_ " he scolded her with a smile, his face instantly flushing red.

 

She pulled his body into hers, and that's when she'd felt it—rock-hard against her stomach. As she gasped, they broke apart with haste.

 

Gendry's face flushed harder, "I'm _so_ sorry."

 

"For what?" she asked, her chest heaving at the sudden realization Gendry _hadn't_ been the one with all the power in this situation, after all.

 

"Um. For... for _my_ -"

 

"For your cock pressing against me just now?" she asked, one eyebrow raised far above the other.

 

Gendry's lips puckered as he expelled the air from his lungs, his face turning an even deeper crimson. He avoided her gaze, cringing all the while. He'd been embarrassed. Nevertheless, she decided to play with him a little bit.

 

"So _you_ can say cock in front of me all you like but I can't say it back?" she teased him, alluding to his embarrassment over his behavior upon discovering she'd actually been a _girl_. All those years ago.

 

Arya's eyes wandered down the length of his body. Instinctively, Gendry covered his groin by clasping both hands in front of it.

 

"That's not going to help you. Besides, I've already seen it _before_ , you know," she teased him further.

 

"That was _years_ ago!" he snapped, "And I was _pissin'_ in front of you, that's not the same! Plus, I was just a _boy_ then."

 

Arya folded her arms as he huffed. His voice had become agitated as he tried to explain himself further, "I just.. I don't want to offend you, Arya. I don't want to ruin this before it even begins by gettin' too excited."

 

"I invited you inside. I begged you to kiss me. I'd be more offended if you _hadn't_ been..." her voice trailed off.

 

After waiting a moment, Gendry inquired, "Hadn't been... _what?_ Excited?"

 

" _Hard_ ," she said, lowering her voice in octave to drive the point home. The bolder she had allowed herself to be with him, the more she relished in his reactions to her. She felt an uncomfortable wetness between her legs as she watched him squirm. Unfortunately, the sensation had _her_ squirming, as well.

 

Gendry drew in a breath so large his chest had nearly doubled in size. Arya found herself wondering what his body looked like. Even through his clothes, he still looked _strong_.

 

"I wasn't done kissing you," she informed him.

 

He finally unclasped his hands, reaching for her waist again. They locked eyes for a brief moment before he moved in for another heated session.

 

Arya pushed him away from her suddenly, hearing the distinct sound of boots clattering against the stone tile in the hallway, fast approaching. Gendry looked horrified at the sudden rejection.

 

"There's someone coming," she explained, looking around and realizing her door had still been wide open. "Quickly, get under my bed!"

 

Without hesitation, Gendry flattened against the stone floor and rolled underneath her bed, completely concealing himself underneath.

 

"Arya?" Sansa's voice carried through the hallway. "Are you in your room _again?_ "

 

"Yes," she called back, wiping her lips clean with her sleeve, hoping her sister wouldn't be able to tell her mouth was swollen from kissing.

 

As she appeared in the doorway, she examined Arya, " _Your hair?_ "

 

"I came here to fix it," she lied, trying to flatten it with her hands.

 

"Did you need any help?"

 

" _No_ , I don't need your help," she snapped.

 

" _Gods_ , Arya. You can be so quick-tempered. I've come up to change before supper. We'll begin feasting shortly. I bet some food would improve that attitude of yours."

 

Arya sighed. She didn't appreciate her sister insinuating she'd had an _attitude_ , but it wasn't worth fighting over. After all, she'd had a man under her bed she'd _very_ much like to get her hands and mouth back onto.

 

"You're right. I just need to eat. I should get changed, too," she relented, closing her door before locking it.

 

Gendry did not come out from underneath her bed.

 

" _Gendry?_ " she whispered.

 

No movement, no sound. _Nothing_.

 

She dropped to the floor to see what the problem had been.

 

_Uh oh._

 

Gendry lay on his back against the stone, an expression of pure horror as he held the face of the servant girl who'd escorted him to Arya's room in one hand, and her ill-fitting robe in the other.

 


	4. I've Always Kept Your Secrets

As Arya spoke with her sister, Gendry tried his best to keep quiet underneath her bed. The task became increasingly difficult when what felt like _skin_ brushed against his own. Slowly, he turned to see a rather convincing _human face_ resting atop a heap of clothing. After successfully stifling a yelp, he very carefully inspected it. It was _undoubtedly_ the face of the woman who'd lead him to Arya's room. With his free hand, he examined the robe as quietly as he could manage. It looked almost exactly like the one the girl wore. _What in seven hells?_

 

The door closed. And then she'd locked him inside. His palms began to sweat.

 

" _Gendry?_ " Arya whispered to him, in an effort to lure him out from underneath her bed.

 

He didn't move an inch. He couldn't even breathe.

 

As she dropped to the floor, Gendry lay there, frozen on the stone tile. When Arya finally met his gaze, she looked positively startled. The girl quickly lifted herself back up off of her floor. He reluctantly rolled out from underneath her bed, evidence still in hand.

 

"What _is this_ , Arya?" he asked as he rose to his feet, shaking the eerily lifelike face in his hand.

 

Burying her face in her palms, she began to pace. After a moment or two, she stammered, "It's... a _mask_."

 

"This is _not_ a mask. Her eyes were brown. Yours are _grey_ ," he insisted, unable to hide the disgust in his voice as he pieced it together, "How did you do it?"

 

Arya sighed, folding her arms. Her entire demeanor had changed from shame to irritation, "Why should I tell _you_?"

 

And just like that, he felt like a stranger to her once more. Gendry thought of their heated kisses and the way he'd reduced her to a whimpering mess with the slightest of touches, sending the fierce fighter retreating to the far reaches of her mind. Now he couldn't even enjoy the memory of how her moans made his lips vibrate as they kissed. There had been something so very wrong about all of it.

 

"Because you _tricked_ me," he pleaded, wishing he could just understand.

 

"Maybe I wanted to see what kind of man you've become."

 

Gendry made no effort to hide his temper after realizing she'd simply been toying with him, "And what kind of man _am_ I? What did _she_ help you learn about me, huh?"

 

Glaring just beyond his shoulder, she remained silent, unable to meet his eyes. She'd been acting feisty, but he could sense that she knew full well he was right to be upset with her.

 

"That I don't want to fall into bed with any random woman? You would've found that out by just speaking with me, Arya," he continued.

 

The girl didn't move a muscle. She held her glare, unflinching, and completely unresponsive, like a statue.

 

"I _don't_ like magic," he explained, his voice grew timid. He knew he was treading into dangerous territory, here. Despite her cruel joke, he still wanted her. _Very much_. Knowing Arya dabbled in _magic_ , he couldn't help but think of _Melisandre_. The comparison gave him a great deal of discomfort. Then came the realization that Arya would want to know what happened to him, and he'd eventually have to come clean. In his mind, he'd been taken advantage of, but he felt pretty certain Arya wouldn't come to see it the same way. Had Arya also been a _witch?_ His desire for her had already sent his mind in search of ways to reconcile what he'd found under her bed.

 

"I'm sorry," she said, though her tone was still combative. "You're right."

 

" _I am?_ " he asked, genuinely shocked she'd given up so easily.

 

Another wordless moment passed between them.

 

"Do you understand the pain you put me through pretending not to recognize me?"

 

"I imagine it to be significantly less than the pain of watching you choose the _Brotherhood_ over me."

 

"You don't think I regretted that decision every day since? Even after I heard about the Red Wedding, I wished I had been there with you. That maybe I could've saved you," he made no effort to hide his emotion in that moment, for he had meant every word of it.

 

"Well, I saved _myself_ ," she spat. He knew getting her to open up was going to be something of a challenge.

 

"What happened to you, Arya?" he softened his voice to match his concern. "How did you escape? Where did you learn how to do... whatever _this_ is?" he asked, still shaking the bizarre _mask_ in his hand. It felt like real skin, and it made his _own_ skin crawl.

 

Arya ripped the strange object from his grasp, tossing it back underneath her bed.

 

"I've never seen anyone handle a sword like you, either. And I've given away _many_ swords to _many_ men."

 

Still, she didn't answer. Taking a seat on her bed, she looked as if she were at least working up the nerve to speak.

 

"I've _always_ kept your secrets, _Arry_ ," he'd used her old nickname to prove his point. "Why won't you explain any of this? It's starting to worry me."

 

Arya expelled all the air from her lungs before drawing another, larger breath, "Do you remember the man who helped us break out of Harrenhal?"

 

He simply nodded, remembering the night he, Arya, and Hot Pie boldly escaped after the man cleared the gate free of its guards. Cautiously, he took a seat beside her.

 

"Afterward, I asked him to tell me how he'd managed to kill all the guards. I wanted to know how to do it, myself. He offered to show me the way of the _Faceless Man_. In the moment, declined him, knowing I had to rejoin my family. Instead, he gave me a coin. He told me if ever I needed to find him again, to give the coin to any Braavosi man, and to say the words _Valar Morghulis_. With that, he turned to leave, and when he looked back, he'd had an entirely _different_ face."

 

"But how?" Gendry inquired.

 

Arya rolled her eyes at his impatience,"After you left me, I tried to run away on my own. Sandor captured me. He tried to take me to Robb. I was there the night of the _Red Wedding_. I watched as they paraded his dead body upon a horse. They'd taken his head and replaced it with Grey Wind's, his direwolf. He then sought to ransom me to my aunt in the Eyrie, but she'd died before we arrived."

 

Gendry reached out to rub Arya's shoulder, "I'm so sorry, Arya. I heard all about what happened to your family when I returned to King's Landing. The Lannisters are pitiful cowards to resort to a trap like that. Everyone knew Robb would've won."

 

Dropping her head, she eased into his caress. Feeling bold, he moved closer to her, running his hands along her arms in an attempt to soothe her. He could tell she was pained, so he sought to veer the subject.

 

"I was surprised to see you jumping on The Hound earlier," he sheepishly said, "I couldn't imagine a world where he'd managed to weasel his way onto your good side. You loathed the man."

 

Arya simply shrugged, "He's off the hook. He paid the price, after all."

 

"What price?"

 

"He was on my list. I vowed to kill him. And so I left him for dead, but he managed to survive," she explained. The voice had come from her lips but the words seemed distant, as if deriving from somewhere else entirely.

 

"Your _list_?"

 

She turned to face him, her grey eyes looking bizarrely vacant, "I have a list of people I've sworn to kill."

 

"Who else is on this list?" he asked, unable to ignore the small pang of worry that his name might've also been added after declining her invitation to join Robb Stark all those years ago.

 

"Cersei Lannister. Gregor Clegane. Illyn Payne, my father's executioner," she clarified. "Thoros of Myr. Beric Dondarrion. _The Red Woman_."

 

"The Red Woman?" Gendry asked, his voice cracking a bit. He didn't know why he'd felt compelled to ask about her. He dreaded the day he'd have to confess his own version of events to Arya. Some part of him knew that she'd come away from the story hating either him or Melisandre, and he hoped for the latter.

 

"I vowed to avenge your death," she explained.

 

"But I'm not dead."

 

"So you'd rather I _removed_ her from my list?"

 

" _No_ ," he answered honestly. "But it's clear we have a lot of lost time to make up for."

 

"Yes," she agreed. "I'd like to know how you made it out alive."

 

"I _will_ tell you," he promised. "But perhaps first we should join the feast. I don't want to keep you away from your family any longer. You just got Jon back. But I still want to know about that... _mask_. And about the man who taught you how to do it."

 

"Would you sleep here tonight, Gendry?"

 

As his name left her lips, he felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach. He looked around at the state of Arya's disorderly room, unable to hide his smile, "I'd like to, but if anyone found out, your brother would probably take my head from me."

 

"I'll protect you," she breathlessly promised, throwing her arms around his neck before planting kisses on his cheek.

 

" _Arya_ ," he groaned. Gendry felt jostled by this sudden loving act from the girl who'd just been so cold and closed off only moments ago. Not that he could blame her. It was a strange time. In fact, _the strangest_. The dead marched for them all. He'd even seen them with his own eyes.

 

It had been the harsh reality Gendry had accepted and prepared for. He'd become just another tool to aid the side of the living in the great war to come. His newfound feelings for Arya had suddenly complicated the acceptance of his fate. Prior to arriving at Winterfell, he'd almost looked forward to death, because it meant finally joining his mother, his father, and even Arya, his old friend he'd assumed to be dead. Yet here she was, her warm lips getting acquainted with his skin, and suddenly the thought of death made him feel sick with grief.

 

" _Arya_ ," he pleaded again, half-heartedly trying to push her away from him. As she pulled away, he felt a sharp pain in his heart, he didn't want it at all. He fought the urge to pull her back into him and resume exploring her mouth with his.

 

"Fine," she barked. He shivered as she removed herself from him completely. Walking to her wardrobe, she pulled out a cloak and tossed it to him.

 

"What's this for?"

 

"You're cold."

 

Though it had been true, he decided against confessing that his shiver had been for _her_ and not the chill in the air. He pulled the fur cloak over his head, and though it had been a bit small, he was thankful to have something with which to combat the cold. The more days that had passed, the more the north had begun to look like the frigid wasteland north of the Wall. He'd spent his whole life never having seen snow, and he'd already had enough of it. As Arya helped adjust the straps across his chest, he felt another series of flutters. He closed his eyes to stop himself from staring at her lips. She stepped away to pull her hair into a tight bun, just the same as Jon's, or _Ned's_. Gendry then remembered the man from their brief encounter during what felt like lifetime ago.

 

Arya guided the pair to the great hall, which had been standing room only as the Queen's entourage had packed the space to the brim. Despite the sheer amount of bodies occupying the space, it had been eerily quiet, and nearly everyone had donned a bleak expression. Gendry looked back to Arya, she didn't seem fazed by the sullen atmosphere. He couldn't help but think of Jon and how quiet and brooding the man had been, perhaps this was simply normal behavior for those north of the Neck. Everything in the north had felt like another world.

 

Ser Davos had spotted Gendry, pushing his way through the crowd, concerned, "I've been lookin' all over for ya, where'd you disappear to?"

 

Gendry looked back to Arya, who'd stepped forward so she was at his side, "I ran into an old friend," he explained, gesturing toward her.

 

Davos raised an eyebrow at Gendry's suspicious grin before inspecting the small girl beside him. The man then looked across the room to Jon, and quickly back to the girl, likely noticing the resemblance, even down to their matching hairstyle. "Arya Stark," she introduced herself, holding her hand out to the kindly older man.

 

"Forgive my manners, m'lady," he said, a look of shock at the girl's surprisingly strong handshake, "Davos Seaworth. An old friend of Gendry's, too."

 

" _Ser_ Davos. He advises your brother," Gendry clarified. Arya's gaze then shifted to Jon, who'd been looking especially uneasy, even more-so than usual.

 

"What's going on with him? With _everyone_ ?" the girl asked of Davos. _So she had noticed_ , Gendry thought to himself.

 

"You haven't heard, m'lady?" Davos asked, "Your _other_ brother has just informed everyone that the dead have broken through the Wall and will reach Winterfell in a matter of days. That's what's goin' on with everyone. We've all been informed that we've got about a week left to live."

 

Arya and Gendry exchanged another look, "Then why are they all standing around? We've got work to do if we're going to win this war."

 

With that, Arya stomped off and away from the men, headed straight for Jon and Sansa.

 

Once out of earshot, Davos whispered, " _Arya Stark_ ? You're _old friends_ with Jon's baby sister? I hope you aren't gettin' any ideas, Gendry."

 

He frowned. His head had already swirled with _countless_ ideas where Arya Stark had been concerned. Though he still hadn't decided which ones he'd actually pursue, _if any_.

 

"It's a long story," he said, shaking his head in an effort to clear his mind.

 

"Well lucky for me, we've got _all_ the time in the world," Davos laughed sarcastically, guiding Gendry over to the far end of a table where, miraculously, two seats had opened up across from one another.

 

"I never mentioned her because I was certain she was dead. I knew how upset I was about it, and could only imagine it was worse for Jon. She was at the _Red Wedding_ , after all," he explained in a hushed tone.

 

Davos nodded, likely remembering the way Melisandre chanted the name ' _Robb Stark_ ' before throwing a leech full of Gendry's blood into a brazier. Davos didn't believe in any gods, but neither he nor Gendry could be sure Melisandre hadn't been the direct cause of Robb Stark's grave misfortune that day. Death had come for every man on her short list.

 

"How did she escape such a massacre?"

 

"She didn't get that far into the story, but I think Sandor might have something to do with it," he said, nodding at the giant man who'd been glowering along with an oddly tall blonde woman draped in a fine suit of armor beneath a fur cloak.

 

"Small world," Davos simply said, grabbing for a pitcher of warm wine upon the table just within arm's reach. He took a swig before passing it to Gendry.

 

"I don't care for wine," he said, pushing it away as he remembered the indescribably delicious liquid Melisandre had given him prior to stealing his blood. He'd since lost all taste for it.

 

"Suit yourself," Davos said, downing the rest of the pitcher, himself.

 


	5. At Least He Suffered

The girl had checked several of the buildings around Winterfell, to no avail. Patrolling through the repurposed dwellings, she searched for his face amongst the influx of bodies shivering upon their bunks, every available bit of indoor space was used to house the many soldiers the Queen had brought, as well as the men around the north who'd come to aid in the cause. _Where was he?_ her mind demanded to know as she scanned the faces of the various men, coming up short.

 

She'd managed to lose track of Gendry sometime after the feast, having gotten caught up talking strategy with her siblings. Jon and Sansa, anyway, as Bran had locked himself away in his room with Sam and Gilly. The same as he'd done most nights since Sam arrived. _I miss him_ , she thought of Bran, knowing that even if she went to visit her younger brother, she'd only come away missing him more.

 

The girl had almost given up her search before deciding to check the library tower, unsure whether or not the building had likewise been implemented as a shelter. Finally, she'd found him shivering under a thin blanket on a makeshift cot inside. The fabric had been pulled up around his ears, nearly covering his face. She'd almost missed him entirely.

 

A small hand reached out to shake him awake. As he opened his eyes, irritation had immediately authored his expression upon seeing the girl's face.

 

"Are you _serious? Again?_ " he spat in a whisper, looking into the girl's dark-brown eyes. He tried his best to express his frustration with her, meanwhile taking care not to wake the assemblage of men fast asleep around them.

 

Arya sighed, answering with a voice that was not her own, "I've found a more suitable accommodation for you. If you would follow me."

 

Rolling his eyes, Gendry stripped off his blanket. He wasn't happy with her, but he wasn't declining her invitation, either. The girl helped him back into his fur cloak before leading him outside toward the great keep. Toward her room.

 

"Can I watch you take it off?" he asked with a bit of a sneer as he rubbed his arms for warmth in the cool night air.

 

" _Excuse me?_ " the girl snapped with a voice that was much too soft, despite trying her best to sound offended. Though, she wasn't _actually_.

 

"Um, the _face_ , I meant," he clarified, his flushed cheeks matching the redness of his nose and ears as the wind whipped at him.

 

The girl snickered, picking up the pace. Gendry quickly chased after her, his boots crunching on the freshly fallen snow.

 

Once inside her room, Arya locked the door and removed her frumpy robe before letting it fall to the floor in a heap, "I'm not usually this messy, y'know," she assured him, "It's just been a long couple of days."

 

"It doesn't matter," he said, glaring into the stranger's eyes. "I don't care about that."

 

Still wearing the face of the brown-haired girl, Arya moved to her fireplace to throw a new log into the dwindling fire. The flame quickly took to it, providing a much-needed light to the room. And _warmth_. So much warmer than the frigid library tower. Every night it grew colder.

 

Fully clad in leather, Arya waited until Gendry's eyes were locked on her before delicately peeling the girl's skin from her own. It was never a comfortable process. The faces she wore weren't mere _faces_ . There was something more that came from donning the identities of the fallen, inspiring just a bit of their personality, motives, inflections. And of course, their _voices_. She didn't entirely understand the magic, herself, though she knew enough of it to make it work for her purposes.

 

Gendry looked positively horrified to see Arya's bloodied face after she fully removed the skin. Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, she flashed him a quick smile before wiping down her face, as well as the mask.

 

"Are you _bleeding_?" he asked, moving a few paces closer to inspect her. His frustration had melted, leaving behind only concern.

 

"Not anymore," she answered with her own gruff voice, lifting her sleeve to show a small cut above her wrist, "I suppose it is a form of blood magic. I must use my own to bring the mask to life."

 

"I _don't_ like this," he reminded her.

 

"I'm aware of that, Gendry," she said, trying her best to control her tone, "However, if you wish to sleep in a warm bed with an old friend until our demise at the end of the week, then you'll probably be seeing more of the _girl_. So as not to arouse suspicion."

 

Rather than answer her, he simply scowled. She knew he'd been freezing, and that his aversion to magic wouldn't be enough to dissuade him from joining her in bed alongside her warm body, next to her warm fireplace. Soon, she'd convince him the safest place in the world for him had been by her side, blood magic included.

 

Gliding over to him, Arya helped guide his arms out of the straps beneath her borrowed cloak, brazenly running her hands along his chest as she did so. _He is strong_ , she thought, already feeling the anticipation of getting him out of his clothes. Together, they pulled the cloak over his head, discarding it into another heap on her floor.

 

"Who was she?" he asked her, his voice shaking a bit as if he dreaded hearing the answer.

 

"I didn't kill her, if that's what you're asking. But I _did_ steal her face from the House of Black and White."

 

"The house of _what?_ "

 

" _Right_. We didn't get that far."

 

Gendry frowned again, clearly conflicted. Arya began removing her belt and her weapons, setting them aside before kicking off her boots and unlacing her doublet. After pulling the leather garment over her head, she began to work on removing her tunic.

 

"Are you sure about this?"

 

"About what?"

 

"I don't know. Undressing in front of me?"

 

Grinning at him fiendishly, she pulled her tunic over her head, revealing her naked torso to him as she began unlacing her trousers. Gendry held his breath as scanned her body with his sky-blue eyes. Arya exhaled. His gaze was so penetrating that she could almost feel it as it dragged along her skin. Once he met her gaze, he quickly wrenched his eyes closed.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

 

"For what?"

 

"For lookin'," he whispered again.

 

"I'm not," she replied, trying her best to sound flirtatious, still unsure whether or not she'd actually sounded ridiculous.

 

When he opened his eyes again, Arya had managed to find her way out of her trousers, wearing only hose and smallclothes. The fabric at her groin was rather thin, too. She tried not to dwell on the revealing nature of what little clothing had covered her skin as she moved over to him, unlacing his thin leather jerkin.

 

"No wonder you're always shaking," she commented, "There's barely anything here! I'll find you some warmer leathers tomorrow. And a proper fur cloak, one that fits these shoulders."

 

Gendry didn't appear to be listening. His eyelids had fallen closed again as she gently unlaced him and pulled the clothing over his head. Arya studied his chest a moment, admiring the way his skin stretched thinly across his pectoral muscles with each breath. Slowly, she dragged her fingertips over each bump of his abdomen in admiration. Instinctively, he flexed as her hands explored him.

 

" _Come to bed_ ," she whispered, sprinting away from him and sliding under the furs. She sat upright as she watched him clumsily hop as he removed his boots. With muscles still flexed, he sauntered over, reluctantly remaining upright by her bedside. Arya patted the space next to her, inviting him a second time.

 

After a moment's hesitation, he slipped in next to her, shifting onto his side as he did so. His fingers similarly grazed her hips and her stomach. Arya obliged as he slowly pushed her back into a lying position. As she settled, he nuzzled into her. Skin on skin, nothing had ever felt so warm and inviting. Arya had even begun drifting off...

 

"About your list..." he began, still hesitantly skimming his fingertips along her bare skin.

 

"What about my list?" she asked, suddenly snapping to.

 

"Couple things. Thoros is already gone."

 

"Where'd you hear that?"

 

"I went north of the Wall with your brother to retrieve one of those... _dead men_ he took to King's Landing. Sandor was there, too," he added. "I watched Thoros get mauled by a bear. _A dead bear_. He was still alive when I left to find help, but he didn't return from beyond the Wall. I didn't ask for details."

 

"Well, at least he suffered."

 

" _Arya_ ," he lightly scolded her.

 

She _wasn't_ having any of it, "He _sold_ you, Gendry. _Good riddance!_ "

 

Arya felt a little bit guilty for her coldness after seeing his frown.

 

"Well, what else about my list?"

 

Without hesitation, Gendry provided an answer, "How come none of the Freys are on your list after what they did to Robb? To your Mother?"

 

"There are no more Freys _left_ to grace my list," she said with certainty, closing her eyes as she fondly remembered the way the blood poured from Walder's neck after she sliced it open. Few things in life had brought her so much happiness. The heat of the liquid spurting from his neck as a few droplets struck her skin, the way the blood spilled so fast it sounded like sizzling meats cooking on an open flame. Even his pathetic gasps for air as fear had finally gripped him. She began to smile just as sweetly as she had while watching the life slowly drain from the withered wretch's eyes.

 

" _What?_ "

 

"Winter came for house Frey," her cold grey eyes opened once more.

 

"What does _that_ mean?"

 

"I will show you what it means."

 

With that, Arya rose from her bed and pulled out a satchel from behind her headboard, "So the story goes, Walder Frey, _himself_ , poisoned the wine of his entire house as they dined in the safety of their own castle. All of this just before being brutally and _tragically_ murdered, himself."

 

There she stood, still half-naked, as she tossed another peculiar skin mask to Gendry. The face of a wrinkled old man. He jumped as he pushed it away from him, "You're _serious_ about all of this."

 

"Dead serious," she reminded him.

 

"That's Walder Frey's _face_?"

 

"Yes."

 

Gendry's expression was something between a look of horror and intrigue. Arya decided to focus on the intrigue.

 

"I know you don't like magic, Gendry. I swear to never use it against you. But I may use it to _help_ you. To help _us_ ," she assured him, as sweetly as one could manage after having just tossed a dead man's face to another. "Anyone who hurts me or those I love will be in for a world of pain, and I will use _anything_ at my disposal to see it through. If that makes you uncomfortable, I understand. But it's not going to change my decision. I've come too far. My list is what helped me through the darkness. My hatred kept me alive and in a way, it helped us reunite."

 

"Could you put it away, please?" he gulped, uncomfortable by the presence of Lord Frey's lifeless face casually sitting beside him. She took the old man's face and stuffed it back into her satchel, hiding it from sight before slipping back into bed. This time, she faced him as he lay on his back.

 

"You're right, Arya. Everyone on your list is there for a reason. I know you're not some cold-blooded killer. I'm not going to ask you to give up any part of it, not even the... _face changing_. So long as you promise not to use it against me, I will trust you. All I ask is that you be _careful_ ," he looked deeply into her eyes. His words warmed her further.

 

 _I will be careful_ , she responded to him only in her head. _Now I have more than enough reason to keep myself alive_. Though, her mind refused to let her voice admit such things aloud. Instead, her hands simply found their way back to his abdomen to caress his skin.

 

"Was Beric there, too? North of the Wall?"

 

Gendry nodded.

 

"Where is he? He's not _here_ , is he?" her temper quickly trickled into her words as she questioned him.

 

" _Calm down_ , Arya. He was left at Eastwatch."

 

"Eastwatch was utterly destroyed by the Night King and his dragon," she offered monotonously.

 

Gendry must not have heard details about how the dead had breached the Wall. He frowned again.

 

"Beric, _too_ , Gendry? _I_ can't imagine a world where the men who _sold_ you managed to weasel their way onto your good side!" she smirked at him, using the same logic he'd used against her in reference to her unlikely friend, Sandor Clegane. She cared greatly for Gendry, but it didn't matter if he had forgiven any of them. _She hadn't_.

 

"It's not _Beric_ , it's Tormund," he corrected her. "The wildling. I liked him. He was funny..." his voice trailed off.

 

"Well, maybe he made it out alive, Gendry. If _the Wall_ came down, then perhaps anything is possible."

 

"That means Beric might've made it out alive, too," he warned her.

 

"All the better," she girlishly smiled, "I'd love nothing more than to burn him alive while his _evil god_ watches." The girl stopped a moment to consider, "Or do you think R'hllor would be more offended if I let him slowly _freeze_ to death? Hmm. Which do you prefer?"

 

Gendry cleared his throat, "Do you mind if we stop talking about _death_?"

 

Arya let out a wicked little laugh, "What else is there?"

 

Gendry turned onto his side to face her. His blue eyes stole a quick glance at her bare breasts, which had been pushed together against her arm as she lay next to him. She couldn't help but divert her eyes as she blushed. He began brushing his fingers along her side, over her waist and hips. Arya may be a fierce killer, but she was still a _maid_ , and therefore, helpless prey to both his look and his touch.

 

Suddenly his lips were back on hers, even his hand had abandoned her hips, wrapping itself around her neck the same way it'd done before. She was thankful to have him guiding her down onto her bed. Without his help, she might've collapsed, already overwhelmed from the lightheaded sensation her thudding heart had equipped her with. Her heartbeat could be felt all over her body—in her chest, her ears, _between her legs_...

 

As they kissed, her hands were free to roam. She dragged her fingers and palms over his back, inspecting his musculature along the way. _He's a fighter_ , she determined, guiding her hands over every distinct curve with approval. She'd already begun conspiring ways to get him to show her his moves.

 

Once her fingers found their way to the waistline of his trousers, he broke away from the kiss to sharply inhale. Gendry held his breath as she traced her fingertips along the V-shaped furrow of his hips that peeked out of his waistline. To Arya, it felt as if his body were beckoning her right toward his groin. And she happily followed the trail, dipping her fingers further into the fabric at his waist. When Gendry's strong arms began to tremble above her, she removed her hand.

 

Instead, she slipped a leg underneath him in order to wrap both around his waist. Arya pulled him back into her kiss. And just like that, they were back to battling with their mouths. She employed some of her sword-fighting techniques, such as feigning her _attacks_ , causing him to angrily chase after her with his tongue. Several times he broke from their kiss to chuckle at Arya's strange tactics. That's when she'd drag her nails across his skin and through his scalp, showing him who had _actually_ been in charge.

 

Gendry groaned, almost painfully, as she wrapped her legs tighter around him. As much as he'd tried to avoid the contact prior to this moment, his cock was suddenly tucked right between her legs. Arya whimpered upon discovering how excited he'd been. Even her legs' death-grip on his waist had loosened.

 

"I'm sor-" he tried to whisper before she interrupted him with more kisses. She wasn't sorry, he shouldn't be either.

 

Fastening her legs back around him, she began rocking her hips, delighting in the way his stiffness had sent waves of dizziness throughout her entire body. The more the fabric between them shifted beneath the rapid movements, she realized just how wet her smallclothes had become.

 

"Wait," she begged of him. Gendry immediately lifted himself off of her, looking worried.

 

Arya bent awkwardly to inspect the thin fabric, half-expecting her blood had started.

 

"What's wrong?" he asked, trying his best to look away as she inspected herself.

 

"Nothing, apparently," she answered, surprised at her body's strong reaction to him. She'd never liked anyone this much. Or at all, really, she reminded herself.

 

"Please keep going," she breathed.

 

Gendry lowered himself back onto her, carefully aligning himself between her legs. The pair began thrusting against each other once again, enjoying the motions of coupling despite the restriction of their clothing. The quicker the movements became, the looser Gendry's trousers had become due to all the friction working his laces further apart. They'd been so lost in the moment that neither had noticed. That is, until the tip of his cock pressed against her opening as he rocked his hips back, though the fabric prevented him from actually entering her.

 

Arya yelped in surprise.

 

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, raising himself up off of her without hesitation.

 

"No," she assured him, pulling him back into her as she adjusted against his groin. Gendry slowed his movements, letting Arya do most of the grinding beneath him so as not to make the same mistake. Rather than kiss, they examined each other's faces as she guided her hips, exploring her own body using his erection to rub against. She clasped his hips, writhing beneath him, eyes clenched shut. Gripped with curiosity, Gendry couldn't peel his eyes away from her.

 

Arya began to groan, or perhaps _growl_. All of her muscles were tightening, and she was quickly building to _something_. Though, the nature of the escalation unnerved her, and so she pushed him off of her before it could culminate. All she knew was that she didn't want to lose control over her own body, and she was sure that's where it had been headed. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain shoot right through her groin.

 

"What just happened?" he asked, fraught with worry as he scrambled to compose himself.

 

 _Good question_ , she thought, before providing an honest answer, "I don't know."

 

"Come here," he murmured, pulling her back into his embrace. She was surprised to see that he looked almost relieved they'd stopped.

 

"You're not upset with me?"

 

"Upset with you? _For what?_ "

 

"For not seeing it through..."

 

Gendry shook with laughter, "How in _seven hells_ could I be upset after stripping down and getting into bed with the most impressive woman I've ever met?"

 

Arya smirked, feeling rather pleased with herself all of a sudden. She looked away from him before quietly admitting, "I've never done it before."

 

"I had a feelin'," he said, wrapping his arms around her tighter.

 

"That doesn't bother you?"

 

"Why should it bother me?" he asked, genuinely curious.

 

"Because _you've_ done it before."

 

He froze. Even his body felt colder as a shiver rattled him. Arya simply eyed him, wondering whether he'd try to deny it.

 

"How do you know that?"

 

"I think because you always look so guilty," she explained. "So, how many?"

 

"How many _what?_ "

 

"How many women? How many _times?_ "

 

" _Arya_ ," he groaned.

 

"Tell me. I won't be upset," she said. At least, she felt pretty confident she wouldn't be. But she would be _jealous_.

 

"Just one," he confessed, so low barely registered, even as a whisper.

 

"Just _one?_ What, one _woman_ or one _time?_ "

 

" _Both_."

 

"How come?"

 

"It's not a good story, Arya. I'd really rather not talk about it right now," he pleaded.

 

Arya stroked his hand gently, running her fingers along his callouses. She liked that his hands were rough.

 

"I'd like to do it with you," she confessed.

 

His face flushed, "You would?"

 

"Not _tonight_ ," she reminded him. "But, soon. If we're all going to die at the end of the week, I might as well try it at least once."

 

"Oh, _thanks_ ," he scoffed, taking her comment the wrong way, as if it were just some whim she'd had.

 

Pulling his chin up so he'd meet her gaze, she clarified, "I didn't care about trying it _at all_ before you showed up. I just don't know whether or not I'll even like it. It's always seemed kind of... _gross_."

 

"I guess it _is_ kind of gross, isn't it?" Gendry laughed. Arya joined him.

 

Once their laughter subsided, he nestled into her neck, whispering, "I'll make sure you like it."

 

A ripple of anticipation swept over her body as his words brushed against her ear. A sensation akin to _pain_ began pulsing throughout her fingertips as her heart thumped away in her chest. It had been a sharp pain, similar to the one she'd felt in her groin only moments ago. _What is happening to me_? she demanded her mind to figure it out.

 

The pair took a moment to calm themselves, to steady their breathing. Arya was happy to be against Gendry's sweat-slicked skin as the inescapable chill hung in the air above them.

 

"You keep sayin' how we're all going to die at the end of the week," he piped up. "Do you really believe that?"

 

"I don't know _what_ to believe."

 

"If it doesn't matter anyway, would you mind at least _pretendin'_ we'll make it through?"

 

"Are you scared, Gendry?" she teased him.

 

"I _wasn't_ ," he said before looking into her eyes once more, "But I am now."

 

"What changed?"

 

For a moment, he held her gaze, as if searching her eyes for some sort of answer. He moved his head to rest it against her heart. " _You_ ," he whispered.

 

Moving her hand up to stroke his head, she ran her fingers through his closely-cropped hair. _I don't want to die, either_ , she replied in her mind, her mouth still refusing to cooperate. It wasn't long before Arya drifted off into the deepest sleep she'd had in months, with Gendry's head heavy against her ribs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Arya does not use blood to bind the faces to her own in the show. But I happened to like that element from the books and so I found a way to incorporate it, here! Helps make it just a bit freakier, no? :D


	6. It's Not What It Looks Like

Unlike Arya, Gendry spent most of the night restlessly drifting in and out of sleep. For hours he lay with his head against her chest, reluctant to surrender its full weight. He finally, and carefully, slid from her ribs and to her side after a cramp had made the position unbearable to endure any longer. Gendry dared not move too much or breathe too hard, afraid any sudden movement would take him from this fever dream. Surely, that's what it must be, as the night had been a tug-of-war between sweating and shivering, like his body was racked with sickness.

 

Each time he'd drift off, something would jolt him awake. Perhaps ice-blue eyes startled him awake, or perhaps the frozen, rotted flesh of dead men standing upright. _Just more magic_. Memories of Flea Bottom seeped into his mind, and the time he'd spent as an armorer's apprentice. Each day had been indistinguishable from the last, the same dull and harsh reality of poverty as far as the eye could see, and then somehow, even _further_. The familiar stench and grit of Flea Bottom would've been the setting for his whole unremarkable life. The sweat from the forge's heat just another part of his daily wardrobe. The dead would've come for him all the same, but he'd have no warning. He couldn't decide whether that fate would've been for better or worse.

 

Jon Arryn had been the first bad omen. Too many questions, he'd asked, possibly resulting in his death. Lord Stark, shaken to his core the same way simply upon seeing Gendry's blue eyes. And then _death_. At the time, he'd had no idea why, not until the gold cloaks followed him up the kingsroad demanding the release of a _bastard_ named Gendry. An interesting conclusion, though at the time he had no idea who his father could be, only that the cost of knowing was death. Eddard Stark had risked his life to discover Gendry's identity... and here he was, lying in his daughter's bed. Hopefully, his deep care for the girl was some sort of reconciliation to the man's ghost, though he couldn't help but frown. Especially upon realizing he still hadn't confessed his father's identity to Arya. There had been so much left to say.

 

When the dim light of the morning began to peek through the closed shutters, Gendry decided to slip from the bed, as if in slow motion. Arya had hardly moved a muscle as she slept, and he'd hoped to keep it that way. Moving as slowly as he could manage, he pulled on each thin piece of his clothing, borrowing Arya's fur cloak once again. After all, she was much more used to the chill than he. Gendry threw another log onto the dwindling fire before taking one last look at the girl as she peacefully slept.

 

Listening at the door for a moment, the coast seemed to be clear. As he made his way quietly into the fall, he returned the door to its frame as slowly as he could manage. Suddenly, he felt an uncomfortable gaze on him. Instinctively, his body began to tremble with either fear or shame, he couldn't be sure.

 

A tall red-headed woman had stopped in her tracks down the hallway from him. Her expression gave nothing away as she began her approach. Just before passing him, she gave him a slight smirk. _Sansa Stark_ , he assumed, as it'd been the same woman to warmly greet Jon.

 

 _That can't be good_ , he thought to himself, trying to find a different path or exit to take to dodge her, to dodge _anyone_ else. Luckily, even though he'd gotten lost a few times, he'd managed to find an exit. He began chiding himself for not just staying put, but his restlessness had brought him to his feet and they began to move of their own volition.

 

Gendry managed to make it outside without any more awkward run-ins. As luck would have it, after just a bit of wandering, Ser Davos had managed to find him once more.

 

"You disappeared on me again," he said, fast approaching.

 

Hoping he wouldn't have to explain himself, Gendry simply nodded.

 

"Well, I've found a job for ya, and considering we only have a week's time, we need ya straight away." Davos placed his hand to Gendry's back, willing him to walk forward, "Though King's Landin' only sent _two_ men to help us in the fight, just so happens one of 'em was the man who shot down the Queen's dragon."

 

"And he willingly came _here?_ To Winterfell? Where the _Queen_ is?" Gendry asked, dumbfounded.

 

"Well, lucky for us he didn't kill the damned thing, but, Lord Tyrion thinks that by putting the best minds at Winterfell together, they can build somethin' similar."

 

"What could've shot down a _dragon_?" he asked, still puzzled. He's seen a lot of things since leaving Flea Bottom, but his mind still had trouble envisioning such a weapon. By now he'd been quite familiar with the Queen's beasts, the idea of a mere man taking one down with any sort of weapon had been incomprehensible.

 

"Some wooden contraption, they're drawin' up plans now and findin' anyone to lend their skills," he explained, still guiding Gendry's direction with his hand.

 

"How can they be sure it's not a trick?"

 

"Lord Tyrion seems to trust the man."

 

"The one who shot down the dragon?"

 

Davos shrugged as he nodded. Gendry simply shook his head. The end of the world had brought together a whole host of strange allies.

 

Crates of dragonglass were being carried in and stacked on either side of Winterfell's smithy. Gendry was familiar with the substance due to his time at Dragonstone, but had never worked with it before. It wasn't like metal—in fact, it might be a substance more suitable for a glazier than a blacksmith. He was unsure whether or not the forge would even help in fashioning weapons from it. Though, perhaps his guess was as good as anyone else's.

 

"From what I understand, the weapon shoots large bolts into the sky. Might need your help makin' the metal parts or maybe bolt heads."

 

Gendry's frown had managed infiltrated Ser Davos' otherwise cheerful demeanor. His face fell into a scowl as well, "What is it, Gendry?"

 

"I've made arrowheads before, but those were purely metallic. Dragonglass is different, it's brittle in larger quantities. There's a chance it could splinter just from the force of flyin' through the air, well before it hits a dragon."

 

Davos huffed a bit, shifting his weight between both feet. When that wasn't enough, the man began to pace, rubbing his chin while deep in thought. After a moment or two, he came to a halt, "Could it be mixed _into_ the metal?"

 

"I honestly don't know. I'd never seen it before going to Dragonstone. I doubt anyone here has, either."

 

"We don't have a lot of time. Once they get the right dimensions or whatever it is you need to get started, try pure dragonglass, and then try mixing it into the metal. Find which works better."

 

"Even if the metal's strength isn't compromised by the addition of dragonglass, how do we know it would be effective against the dead, or the _dragon_?"

 

Ser Davos sighed, "Well, it's not like we can test it, can we?"

 

His mind suddenly populated the memory of the suicidal mission he'd taken north of the Wall with Jon and the others—the nearly impossible task of capturing a dead man, "Most likely not."

 

"Most likely?" Davos huffed again, an eyebrow raised so high it crinkled his forehead. "Don't you get any wild ideas."

 

"Not _me_. It's Lord Tyrion whose ideas I worry about."

 

Gendry picked up a chunk of glass, turning it over carefully in his palm, trying to discern its qualities. Perhaps it _could_ be ground up and mixed into metal. If it worked, it would be a failsafe measure, in case the dragonglass bolts were as brittle as he feared they might be. If only he had more time to acquaint himself with the strange substance.

 

As he inspected the glass, the feeling of eyes on him had raised gooseflesh on his arms. He looked up to see the same vacant pair of dark-brown eyes that had haunted him like a corpse come to life. Had Arya been right? Was death really all there was? In this moment, it sure felt like it, under the scrutiny of a dead girl's gaze while he prepared to fight an army of dead men.

 

In any other context, he'd be delighted to see Arya. But he saw nothing of Arya in this girl. Nevertheless, she made her way over to him carrying a satchel of some sort.

 

" _There_ you are," she said, heaving the bag further up on her shoulder.

 

Ser Davos took turns between eyeing the girl as well as the bastard. His skin wrinkled even more as his eyebrows inched their way further up his forehead.

 

The girl wasn't fazed by Davos, or any onlooker—her eyes were entirely fixated on Gendry. He, on the other hand, couldn't keep his eyes from darting around to meet the curious gazes. Even though it was merely a servant girl so far as anyone knew, the men were offering up hungry looks at Arya's clever disguise. Gendry couldn't help balling his fists, one of which still held the dragonglass shard. Suddenly, a wave of pain overtook him as the glass sliced at his palm.

 

" _Shit_ ," he said, keeping his voice low, dropping the bloodied shard to the ground as a stream of red liquid leaked into the snow.

 

Without hesitation, the girl tore part of the skirt from her robe and wrapped his wound, "This isn't your dominant hand?" she asked, concerned.

 

He shook his head. Luckily, it had been his left.

 

"Good. We'll get this cleaned up."

 

Taking him by the hand, the girl led him away from the smithy, away from Davos' penetrating stare, and through the crowds of meandering men. They'd all been looking restless, hoping to make themselves useful as time ticked down. Arya had guided him _behind_ a building rather than inside of one. The seed of dread the girl's presence had planted in his stomach began to sprout.

 

Once out of sight of the others, the girl pushed him into the wall and pressed her lips to his. Their skin hadn't met for even a full second's time before Gendry forcefully pushed her away from him, utterly repulsed. Even though he knew Arya had been under there, _somewhere_ , his mind immediately rejected the advance.

 

" _No_ ," he growled, fully extending his arms to hold between them, "I only want to kiss _your_ lips." He wanted to scold her about how disturbing it was to be kissed with the face of a _dead girl_ , but he held his tongue, in hopes to kiss the _real_ Arya later on.

 

"Fair enough," she laughed. He _hated_ the sound, it was nothing at all like Arya's girlish giggle.

 

"Was _she_ necessary?" he spat, hoping to make his distaste clear in tone, alone.

 

"Well, I don't suppose you'd like my _brother_ to catch me with you?"

 

Gendry frowned, remembering he had already been caught by one of her siblings. "Your sister saw me leave your room this morning," he quickly admitted, turning his gaze away from hers.

 

Arya tried wearing an angry expression, but the girl's face hadn't had an ounce of Arya's fierceness. Nor had her voice. Everything about her was just so _off_.

 

"Why'd you leave without me?"

 

"I couldn't sleep. I wanted to help, to make myself useful, somehow," he sighed.

 

She sighed, too, as if mimicking him, "You're right. It doesn't matter."

 

"I _didn't_ say it doesn't matter."

 

"Well, it _doesn't_. I won't let her interfere with how I choose to spend my time. Not now."

 

She'd made a good point. Had she been there with her own face, he might've kissed her in that moment. Instead, his gaze fell to his boots, sure he'd looked just as uncomfortable as he felt.

 

The girl sighed again, "You're so uptight."

 

" _What?_ "

 

"Loosen up, Gendry."

 

He opened his mouth to argue with her but decided against it upon realizing she'd been right. His arms fell to his side, "And I used to think _you_ were uptight."

 

The girl laughed.

 

"Stop laughing," he pleaded weakly.

 

"You're going to just _tell_ me to stop laughing?"

 

"I don't like her laugh. I like _your_ laugh."

 

"Ugh. You're no fun."

 

Gendry gave her a stern look, "Look up, Arya," he pointed to the sky to emphasize his point, "The sun hardly breaks through the clouds, I'm not even sure it ever stops snowin'."

 

She relented, fixing her gaze upwards, rapidly blinking as snowflakes fell into her brown eyes, "What's your point?"

 

" _They_ bring the cold, so they say. Somehow, it's even colder today than yesterday. Tomorrow it'll probably be worse. Who can have _fun_ when the world is ending?"

 

"All the more reason to loosen up," she smiled at him, grabbing his left hand with her own. Unwrapping the makeshift bandage from his palm, she discovered he'd already stopped bleeding.

 

Arya knelt to grab a handful of snow, rubbing it into his wound as if to clean it, "It's not as bad as it looked. Just a small gash near your thumb. We should find you some proper bandages, though."

 

Gendry nodded in agreement.

 

"How did this even happen?"

 

Looking away from her, he admitted, "It shouldn't have. I gripped the glass too hard on accident—I just didn't like how they looked at you."

 

"They weren't looking at _me_."

 

"Well, you're still in there somewhere, and I didn't like it."

 

"I can handle myself, you know," she smirked.

 

"There are few things I know as well as _that_ ," he finally smiled back.

 

The girl's eyes fell closed as she grinned. Gendry tried his hardest to picture the expression on Arya's actual face. It'd hardly been an hour since he'd last seen her, and he'd already missed her giant grey eyes and her natural smirk.

 

"What's in the bag?"

 

Grinning wider, she shrugged the bag from her shoulder and slipped a hand inside, "I managed to find some warmer clothing for you and a proper cloak of your own."

 

After pulling her hand from the bag, she extended a closed palm toward him, "Take it quickly."

 

As her fingers spread apart, Gendry snatched the key from her palm, "A key?"

 

"To my room," she whispered.

 

Gendry dropped it into his pocket, awkwardly dodging the gaze of the servant girl Arya had been masquerading as, "Thank you," he simply said. He knew what the key implied—an open invitation. To her room, and possibly to other things, though he didn't like thinking of them in front of this brown-eyed girl.

 

"I'll take you to Maester Wolkan. He'll get you fixed up so you can get back to work," she assured him, taking him by the hand once more, leading him to the Maester's turret nearby.

 

After he was freshly bandaged, Gendry made his way back to the forge, his bag full of goods in hand. Unsure where Arya had run off to, he noticed she'd disappeared as Wolkan dressed his wound. Either way, he thought it best to focus on the task at hand, deciding to meet up with her later.

 

Ser Davos had still been lingering around the smithy, looking rather worried. "You were gone some time," his tone accusatory.

 

"Sorry about that," Gendry simply said.

 

"I told you not to get any wild ideas," the old man sounded fatherly as he spoke, "I didn't just mean about _dead men_ ." He moved closer to the boy to emphasize his next point, "First the Stark girl, and now this _new_ girl?"

 

"It's _not_ what it looks like," he assured him, though he was probably right to be concerned. Even Gendry was concerned. How _had_ it looked?

 

"I hope not. You've got work to do. We've all got work to do, and no time to spare."

 

" _Right_. We'll crush up some of this glass and see how well it bonds with steel," he said, thankful for the familiar heat of the forge warming the air around them, "It'll take some trial and error to find the right combination that doesn't weaken the steel's integrity."

 

"Sounds like a plan," Davos smiled cheerfully, recruiting a few of the men standing around nearby to assist.

 


	7. I Hear You're Old Friends

"You're late," Arya accused Gendry as she squeezed in across the table from him. He stole glances around the hall, still unsure whether being seen with her so blatantly had been appropriate or not. A small hand hovered over his plate, breaking off a piece of bread before finding its way to her mouth.

 

"You could get your _own_ bread, you know," he reminded her, tugging his plate closer to him.

 

"I'd rather help myself to _yours_ ," she shrugged. Though her tone had been even, a smirk drew itself across her face. Every ounce of him wished to flirt back with her, but decided against it, knowing his voice would travel.

 

"How can you eat that stuff?" she asked, scrunching her face up as she inspected his bowl.

 

"I've had worse. _Much_ worse," he said, shoveling more mystery stew into his mouth. It was much better than Flea Bottom's typical offerings.

 

"Me, too," she laughed while reaching for another hunk of bread on his plate. For some reason, it made him smile. After too many consecutive seconds of staring at her mouth as she chewed, he shook himself from his gaze. Deciding to check whether or not Jon had spotted them, he had been unable to see past the glaring absence of Daenerys at supper.

 

"Where's the Queen, anyway?"

 

"Word is she hasn't been taking the news about the dragon well," Arya explained, falling silent a moment as her expression twisted into one of pain, "In a way I understand."

 

"You understand what it's like to lose a _dragon_?" he scoffed before tipping back his goblet.

 

She rolled her eyes, "I had a direwolf, once. Nymeria. I had to let her go after she bit Joffrey."

 

Gendry nearly spat his drink, "Your direwolf did _what?_ "

 

Arya couldn't help but grin, "You should've seen him. It was hardly a nip and he was cryin' like a babe. After I encouraged Nymeria to run away, Cersei ordered my sister's wolf to be killed in her place. I can't imagine how I'd feel if Lady came back from the dead to do someone else's bidding."

 

"I see what you mean."

 

The solemn expression Arya had worn while recounting her tale had yielded to her signature smirk once more, "The Queen came to help the North, but in a way, she completely fucked our chances, didn't she?"

 

"By attempting to save your brother's hide, if you need remindin'," Gendry glared.

 

"I didn't say I _blamed_ her," she shrugged, her distracted gaze seemed to focus on something that wasn't actually there. "It's just funny, that's all."

 

"It's _not_ funny."

 

A moment of unnecessary silence hung between them. Gendry decided to change the subject, even if to one he didn't particularly wish to hear about, so long as they kept talking. "Is that why Cersei is on your list? Your sister's wolf?" he asked.

 

"Oh, it's one of the _many_ reasons."

 

"Tell me more about Nymeria," he insisted, hoping to spare those within earshot her murderous rantings about the Usurper.

 

" _Nymeria_ ..." she started, her smirk falling away as a wistful look rose in its place, "She is the most _beautiful_ , fearsome wolf. Even more than Ghost—though don't tell Jon I said that."

 

"I wouldn't dare," he assured her with a smile, all the while stealing a quick glance at the giant white beast toward the front of the hall. Ever since Jon returned to Winterfell, his loyal companion hardly left his side.

 

"She's magnificent. Golden eyes, mostly white with grey fur along her back and forehead. She was smart, too, though didn't quite understand the merit in following orders, which made her seem wild," she managed a laugh though her expression gave her away. Nymeria had meant a great deal to her.

 

"That part sounds like _you_ ," he said, confident in his comparison.

 

She simply raised an eyebrow before she continued, "When I decided to come back to Winterfell, I happened upon her in the woods."

 

"You _did?_ And she didn't come back with you?"

 

"I asked her to come back home with me, but she has her own life, now. I had to let go of her a second time."

 

Arya, who'd been rather guarded with her emotions, hadn't been doing the best job at keeping them in check upon reliving the painful memory. Her chin quivered as she clenched her mouth shut. Noticing how upset this made her, Gendry reached for her hand, gently stroking her finger with his thumb.

 

"I'm sorry, Arya," he whispered, wishing they had been alone so he could wrap his arms around her. Suddenly, his skin prickled as if he'd been being watched. Without even turning to check, he knew for certain it had been Jon. Clearing his throat, he tore his hand away from hers. Instead, he'd poked at his stew, searching for a way to veer the subject again.

 

However, Arya had done it for him. Her grey eyes suddenly grew twice in size, " _Gendry!_ I can't believe I haven't told you..."

 

His stomach began tying itself into knots, "Told me what?"

 

"Hot Pie! He's still at the Crossroads!" she beamed.

 

His mouth split into a wide grin, "You've _got_ to be shittin' me!"

 

" _No_ ," she grinned. "If we survive all this, I'll take you there."

 

"I'd like that," he smiled back, hardly expecting an update about their friend. His mind basked in the imagery of traveling the open road on horseback with Arya.

 

"He's the one who told me Jon was alive. Hot Pie's why I came back," she explained, extending her small hands across the table to grasp his fingers.

 

Gendry instinctively glanced at Jon, who'd been glaring at him from over his goblet. _Shit_ , he panicked. He tore his hands away from Arya's once more, furrowing his brows in what he hoped looked like an apology to her.

 

"Oh, don't worry about him," she waved her hand as if to dismiss the idea entirely.

 

"Easy for you to say. He'd never hurt _you_."

 

She merely laughed, "He won't hurt you either."

 

"Davos says the man almost beat Ramsay Bolton to death with his _bare hands_ ," Gendry spat.

 

"Well, that's because he deserved it," she assured him, with the same offputting flicker of murderous intent behind her dusky eyes.

 

"You Starks..." he began, shaking his head. "I'm just glad to be on your good side," he turned to look at Jon, still steely-eyed and staring in his direction, before adding, "For now, anyway."

 

"He likes your idea, by the way," she smiled.

 

"What idea?"

 

"Seeing how the dragonglass takes to being mixed with steel."

 

" _I'm_ not even sure I like the idea, and honestly, it was mostly Davos rather than me," he sheepishly admitted. "They still drawin' up plans for the weapon?"

 

"Well, do you see the Lannisters anywhere?"

 

"Why? You haven't strung 'em up somewhere, have you?"

 

Arya covered her mouth as she giggled. There it was, the laugh he'd been hoping to hear ever since the dead girl came around haunting him earlier in the day.

 

"Good. You're taking my advice," a sickeningly smug look overtook her face.

 

" _Advice?_ "

 

"Loosening up," she purred, rubbing her boot against his under the table.

 

"Calm down, Arya. I wouldn't get too proud of yourself," he tried his hardest to scowl, but his smile slipped through. "World's still endin' an' all. I'll be back to moping before you know it."

 

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered. "Even if you start moping again."

 

"Well, that's a relief," he laughed, though his face held a pained expression, "I'll have no choice but to mope. I'm not ready to die."

 

" _Valar Morghulis_ ," Arya mumbled in response as her expression fell as blank as one of her eerie death masks.

 

" _What?_ "

 

"It means 'all men must die'," she clarified.

 

Gendry playfully shook his head at her. "What'll I do with you, Arya?" he asked, dipping what was left of his stale bread in his stew and taking a large bite.

 

"You _know_ what," she winked at him, her boot moving further up, brushing against his leg.

 

Gasping at the sudden contact after such an insinuation, the bite of food lodged in his throat. Quickly bringing his goblet up to his mouth, he managed to swallow it down with a large swig of water. Once he recovered, he glared at Arya, who'd been rather pleased with herself.

 

"You okay, Gendry?" Ser Davos asked, appearing from out of nowhere.

 

"For now," he replied, still glaring at Arya's unrelenting smirk.

 

"Don't mind me," the older man said, squeezing in between Gendry and whoever had been to the other side of him.

 

"Ser Davos," Arya began, "How's the Queen?"

 

As if on cue, a hush fell over the hall as Daenerys entered between a pair of guards. Jon rose from his chair so fast it almost went tumbling to the floor behind him had he not been quick enough to catch it. Stone-faced, she swiftly moved to his side as he pulled a seat out for her. Gentleman he was, Jon only sat back down the moment his Queen had tucked her chair beneath the table.

 

"Your guess is as good as mine, m'lady," uttered Davos, all three of them gazing in her direction as she turned to coolly discuss something with her Warden.

 

"I _thought_ I had seen a spark in his eye when they'd arrived. It's obvious he is completely taken with her. He's going to get his heart crushed, isn't he?"

 

"I wouldn't be so sure," Davos chimed in, his tone more telling than his words.

 

" _What?_ " Arya turned to him, wide-eyed and bewildered.

 

"He's not wrong," Gendry agreed.

 

She lowered her voice, leaning into the men, "Are you implying my _bastard_ brother has any chance at all with the _Dragon Queen_ , herself?"

 

"According to Lord Tyrion, the moment she received word that Jon was in trouble beyond the Wall, she didn't hesitate to mount her dragon and fly off to save him," Davos proudly explained.

 

"Well, Jon wasn't the only one there, though, was he?" Arya asked, still unsure of all the details of their ridiculous task.

 

"No, but it was clear on their faces when he volunteered for the mission in the first place," he continued.

 

Arya lifted her head into her palms, enjoying the gossip a bit too much. She seemed utterly thrilled that Jon had managed to impress a woman such as Daenerys, "What do you mean?"

 

"When your brother offered to lead the party north of the Wall, you could see the fear in her eyes. She didn't like it one bit, even threatening to keep him at Dragonstone against his will."

 

" _Really?_ " somehow, she grinned even wider, "Is that true, Gendry?"

 

"I wasn't there for that. But I was there when they said goodbye before we went to Eastwatch."

 

"Tell me _everything_ ," she insisted.

 

"Uh," he cleared his throat, "Well, I heard him say something along the lines of, if he died, then at least she wouldn't have to deal with him anymore."

 

"He _didn't_ ," Arya groaned, looking to Davos for confirmation.

 

The man shook his head in agreement, "They were bickerin' the whole time, m'lady, from the first."

 

"Should've seen the look on her face as he left. She looked wounded," Gendry assured her.

 

"Did _he?_ "

 

"Doesn't he always?" he asked, nodding toward her brother, full-on brooding as if on cue.

 

Arya laughed, "I suppose."

 

The three of them studied the strange couple sitting at the front of the hall once more. To Gendry, Daenerys Targaryen seemed more like a mythical figure than an actual person. From her dragons to her feats, and even the unearthly color of her silver hair—she was quite unlike any other person he'd seen before. And then there was Jon, who had been the physical embodiment of the North, from the Neck to the Wall, and perhaps beyond, all summarized in one person. Stubborn, humble, and bleak, but also kind.

 

"We thought we lost him beyond the Wall, he came back covered in ice from head to toe. We had to break his clothes off of him because they were frozen stiff," Davos recalled, cutting right through Gendry's thoughts. "The Queen sat by his side, waiting for him to wake up."

 

Arya looked ecstatic upon hearing such details, "Oh, I can't _wait_ to tease him about this."

 

Gendry stole another glance at the Warden. The world was ending, and here he had been, doe-eyed over the woman beside him. Shifting his gaze to Arya, he could understand. Every time her grey eyes had found his, time slowed, if only for a bit.

 

"I hear you and Gendry are old friends, m'lady," Davos stated as he refilled his goblet from a nearby pitcher.

 

"We are," she confirmed.

 

"Well, how'd you meet? _And when?_ "

 

"After my father was executed," she'd started right into it, causing Gendry to wince, "The Night's Watch recruiter who had been waiting to take my father there as a mercy, had recognized me in the crowd. He sheared my hair off and posed me as a boy. He was supposed to bring me back to Winterfell. I met Gendry just before we left."

 

Davos seemed taken aback by the casual way in which Arya recounted the troubling tale of a young girl suddenly thrust into an unimaginable circumstance.

 

"A boy was pickin' on her. Or well, _him_ , I didn't know she was a girl. I stepped in to shut it down."

 

Arya brushed the idea aside with a physical gesture, "I could've taken him."

 

"I had no way of knowin' how dangerous you are," he shrugged.

 

"I'm _still_ not sure you know."

 

Davos raised a worried eyebrow. His gaze bounced between the pair as they recounted their history together. He cleared his throat, "I assume you didn't make it back to Winterfell?"

 

"No. We were captured by goldcloaks and taken prisoner at Harrenhal. After a while, we managed to escape. We tried to make it to Riverrun, where my mother's family lived."

 

"I'm guessing that didn't go to plan either?"

 

"Good guess," Gendry laughed.

 

"We were found by the Brotherhood. Stayed with them a while, until the _Red Witch_ bought Gendry from them," Arya seethed. "They sure pat themselves on the back for being different from the rest of Westeros, don't they? Claiming to resist the games noblemen play, but there they are, buying, selling and trading boys for their evil god. It's _disgusting_."

 

The man's grizzled face contorted into a smile upon hearing the acid in her words, "I _like_ this girl!"

 

"Me too," Gendry smiled, a bit too wide as Arya raised a suggestive eyebrow at him.

 

Davos cleared his throat to cut the tension, "If only the rest of the world had an ounce of the Stark honor, eh?"

 

"If only," Arya said, throwing a leg up over the bench before rising to her feet.

 

"Where are you going?" Gendry nearly cried out.

 

"Nowhere in particular," she casually answered. "But you know where to find me later."

 

With that, she was gone. Heading off toward Jon, whose gaze again shifted to Gendry, whose eyes lingered too long on Arya as she walked away. He sighed.

 

"And just _where_ will you be findin' her later?"

 

"Who are you, my _father_?" he snapped, suddenly getting irritated with the way Davos always seemed to be lurking around and keeping him in check.

 

"Well _someone's_ got to keep an eye on you," he assured the boy.

 

Gendry simply scoffed. The more Davos pressed him about behaving around the _Stark girl_ , the less he wanted to. He could feel the weight of Arya's key hanging in the pocket of the leather trousers she'd found for him, and the anticipation gripped him. Not just for the flirtatious manner in which she'd been speaking with him throughout supper, but just getting to speak with her at all. After spending years alone in King's Landing, he'd had only the occasional drab conversation with people who'd led equally drab lives. If nothing else, he was happy to have a friend again.

 

His heart sank as he spotted Arya and Sansa slipping out of the hall together, much earlier than the rest. He wished he could follow her, but knew Davos wouldn't allow it. So there he sat, biding his time until he could safely sneak back to her room to thaw out after a long day spent at the mercy of the harsh northern winds.

 


	8. You Were Just A Girl Then

After Sansa had caught Gendry leaving her room, she confronted her little sister about it as they left the great hall together. Arya thought it best not to deny it. She recapped their history together, much like she had for Davos, though she lingered on certain points she'd excluded at supper. Like the way his assumed death had been one of the driving forces behind her need for revenge. Sansa did not offer much in return other than a knowing smile that made Arya feel as though she'd been defeated, somehow. Discovered, found out.

 

As the days stretched out, she felt some measure of her burning hatred slipping away, being replaced by a sort of... _weakness_. Perhaps if she bedded Gendry, she could conquer that desperation she felt every time she saw his stubborn, lovesick face. It had been the same expression she wore whenever she looked at him. It made her ill—in a way that left her feeling compromised. Yet in another way, the illness intrigued her, much like the motion sickness felt at sea during a storm; a glorious queasiness that arises from a force she has zero control of, anxiously awaiting the wave that could capsize her, and wondering whether she'd make it through this storm unscathed.

 

 _Why_ did she feel this way? It'd been years since she'd last seen him. It was true she cared for him deeply, that she missed him, that she wished for some alternate version of events where he'd never left her side—but the degree to which she felt drawn to him seemed absurd. So absurd that she even attempted to look a bit more... _ladylike_ as she waited for him. All too well, she remembered the look on his face the first time the _Red Woman_ came riding up, and she started to feel disgusted with herself for bothering.

 

Arya paced her room, enrobed in a simple nightgown that hugged the curves she usually kept hidden under thick, shapeless leather. Nervously, she fondled her tousled hair, wondering whether her efforts to flirt with him this evening had all been for naught, and whether she came on too strong or not strong enough. _Ugh, I just want this over with_ , the voice inside her head growled.

 

Finally, Gendry entered her room, taking care to gently close and lock the door before turning to face her. Arya's heart sank as his face twisted into an expression of sheer amusement. Slowly, he inched toward her, rubbing his hands together for warmth. As she wrapped her own around them, Gendry winced from the sudden heat of her skin.

 

"What's that look on your face?"

 

"Look? I don't have a look..."

 

"You do. Like you want to laugh at me."

 

"I just didn't expect to see you wearin' somethin' like that. Doesn't seem like you," he admitted with a chuckle.

 

"Maybe you're right," she spat, hastily untying the knot at her waist and pulling the robe apart at its center, ready to heave it to the ground.

 

Gendry's hands snapped to the collar of her robe, bringing both sides together, holding it shut. With a slow, nervous gulp, he tried to assure her, "I wasn't laughin' at you, Arry."

 

As his cold fingers held her robe together, Arya looked down to see the two stiff bumps poking through the fabric on either side of her chest. Upon hearing his labored breathing, she looked up to see Gendry had noticed, too.

 

Pushing his hands away, she felt well enough to tease him again, "Well, that's your fault, isn't it? Your hands are too cold."

 

Gendry gulped again, his clear-blue irises bouncing between hers, unsure where to let his gaze fall as he struggled not to look down again.

 

"I'm sorry, _m'lady_ ," he apologized with a whisper.

 

"You come in here ready to laugh at me, but look at you, now."

 

"What?"

 

"You're a nervous wreck, aren't you? You _like_ the nightgown."

 

"I like _you_ ," he corrected her.

 

"I remember how you looked at the _Red Woman_. You like your ladies in pretty dresses, don't you?" Arya knew instantly she'd struck some sort of nerve, and had regretted each word as she watched his face shift with irritation.

 

"My _ladies_? As if I've got some collection of 'em stored away somewhere, at my disposal?" he snidely asked.

 

"You never looked at _me_ that way," she accused him, quite unsure why her mind kept throwing out these combative statements and accusations. She didn't really wish to fight with him, but it felt like all she knew how to do, all she was good at.

 

With eyes tightly clenched shut, Gendry whispered, "You were just a _girl_ , then, Arya."

 

Her mind involuntarily wandered to the memory of Meryn Trant, the disgusting Kingsguard who took Syrio Forel from the world. He exacted his perversions on defenseless little girls. She wondered then, whether he would've done the same thing to her had he managed to catch her after slaying her dancing master. A look of pure disgust washed over her, not lost on the pair of wary blue eyes that had found her again.

 

" _No_ ," he began, having gotten the wrong impression, "You have to understand, Arry. Doesn't matter how cute you were back then, you were just a kid. _Of course_ I wasn't going to look at you the same way I'd look at a grown woman."

 

"I _do_ understand," she admitted. "It just reminded me of someone else for a moment, that's all."

 

" _Someone else_?" he asked, jealousy clear in his tone.

 

"Yes. Someone whose eyes I pierced with a dagger," she coldly explained.

 

"He was on your list?"

 

She nodded, staring off into the distance, "He was a bad man. He hurt little girls."

 

Gendry let out a drawn-out sigh, "See? If I looked at you that way back then, I wouldn't have eyes to look at you now."

 

Arya couldn't help but laugh. She pulled his cold hands to her waist before resting her arms on his shoulders, "I don't know why I even said it. I _was_ just a girl. Sometimes I still feel like one."

 

"Sure don't feel like one to me," he said in a gruff voice, letting his fingers slowly wander from her waist to her hips.

 

The ice-cold touch of his fingers through the already cool fabric had dotted her skin with gooseflesh. Her breath caught in her throat as his hands wandered, wondering how much more she could handle before her knees buckled. His mouth had found her neck, planting icy kisses from her collarbone to the hinge of her jaw.

 

" _Gendry_?" she whispered, pushing against his chest, willing him to stop.

 

As he pulled away, he'd worn a hazy sort of look, as if he'd been woken from a deep slumber. His half-opened eyes awaited whatever it was she'd had on her mind.

 

"You could really use some warming up," she said, taking his hand before leading him back toward her bed. Arya helped him undress. After removing his new leather clothing and pulling his boots off, he'd been left standing there in only a tunic and breeches.

 

Pulling the furs back, Arya climbed into her bed, tugging hard on Gendry's arms, causing him to tumble onto her. For a moment they laughed as he adjusted his position above her. Managing to drag the furs up and over them, Arya could already feel his skin warming. She felt a few other things, such as an undeniable stiffness against her thigh. She opened her legs to accommodate him, sending a deep shudder throughout his body, causing even the bed to shake along with him. His eyes seemed to linger on hers for a moment, considering his next course of action. He raised himself off of her and readjusted.

 

"What's wrong?" she dared to ask, turning onto her side as he settled in behind her.

 

"Nothin's wrong, I've just been dreamin' of holdin' you against me all day. You're so _warm_ ," he murmured, pulling her against his chest, which had luckily been a bit warmer than his extremities.

 

After several moments locked together, the stiffness now at her backside became distracting. She wondered how it would feel inside of her, still wishing he'd take her and be done with it, so she could go about her days concentrating on something _else_ for a change.

 

He began shifting uncomfortably against her, perhaps it had distracted him, too. Boldly, one of his chilled hands found its way to Arya's breast as he held her tighter. The girl jumped at the sudden icy intrusion.

 

" _Shit_ , sorry, I thought there'd be fabric coverin' you," he apologized, moving his hand away. Indeed, her untied robe had fallen open.

 

"You're going to apologize for _that_ while you rub your cock against my ass?"

 

He nuzzled a cold nose into her neck as if embarrassed, inching his pelvis away from her. She craned her neck to look at him, "You spook too easily."

 

"I don't normally," he retorted, "But nothin's worth offendin' you."

 

"I gave you a key to my room, Gendry."

 

"That doesn't necessarily mean you want-" he stopped himself.

 

"Want _what_?" she teased.

 

"My _cock_... against your ass," he fumbled over the words just a bit.

 

She laughed, chasing his groin with her backside, pressing back into him. Her right hand found his, dragging it back up to cup her breast.

 

"You've been here some time now, and these fingers haven't warmed up one bit," she commented, rubbing her own against his to create much-needed friction.

 

Behind her, he cleared his throat, "I have an idea that might help."

 

"Anything is a worth a shot," she breathed.

 

Suddenly his hand found its way to the swell of her hip. She felt a tugging at the robe, splitting the fabric down the middle and leaving her body exposed had she not been underneath the furs. Gendry pulled himself further into her before slipping his fingers just below the waistline of her smallclothes, still safely at her hip.

 

Arya gasped at the bold move on his part but made no objections. Her senses had heightened upon the threat of his cold hand. She heard the swishing sound from his throat as he swallowed, as if awaiting a protest that wasn't coming. For some reason, his hesitation made her want it even more. Closing her eyes, she focused on steadying her breathing as his fingers slowly inched their way between her thighs.

 

Her breathing quickly became erratic as his fingertips swirled in her coarse hair. Pressing himself tighter against her body, she could feel his muscles harden as they tensed up. A shiver traveled the length of her spine as one of his fingers properly greeted her. It felt as if he'd slipped a melting icicle between her legs. Upon his discovery, a low hiss reverberated behind her as her heart slammed so hard into her ribs, she thought it might break right through. Blood had abandoned her limbs, leaving her right hand shaking as she raised it up to grasp Gendry's taut arm. The muscles had danced beneath his skin as his fingers explored her.

 

She gave in to the urge to hook her leg over his thigh. Once he had better access, he cautiously slipped a finger inside of her. Unsure why, the sensation caused her to draw in all the air her lungs would allow for as if she had been submerged in water.

 

"Are you alright?" he breathed, after a moment. His cold nose brushed against her ear.

 

Her voice had gone, all she could do was feverishly nod her head in approval.

 

"You're not breathin'," he whispered into her neck, his voice lower, still.

 

 _He was right_. Sharply, she exhaled before quietly pleading, " _Keep going_ ," just as his fingers threatened to retreat.

 

Upon seeing the state of what she assumed to be a rather sorry expression, he smiled, lowering his face to hers. He let his forehead linger on hers a moment, his hot breath stifling, just willing her in to meet his lips. As their mouths finally joined, he slipped a second finger inside of her, arousing a pitiful whimper from behind her lazy, distracted kiss.

 

The fullness of his fingers tucked away inside of her had felt extraordinary—one hot, one cool. Slowly, he pulled them from within her, bowing them as he slipped back in. She'd made an honest effort trying to kiss him back until his thumb went swirling, searching for the spot that would be her ruin— _and finding it_. Already having felt overwhelmed, the sudden inclusion had been too much to bear. Struggling, she tried to move away from his probing hand. He diligently chased after her, pinning her down with his weight as he sped up his movements.

 

With no direction left to go, Gendry had left her no choice but to succumb to the very thing she'd previously avoided. For all she knew, the ground had given way beneath them. With only his body there to anchor her, he kept her from falling through and into the void. What sounded like wind had even echoed in her ears, until she realized it was only her resonant heartbeat, which she felt through every inch of her body. _How many senses could he strip from her_ ? Her muscles began to move of their own volition, deep tremors that shuddered against his compressed weight. Even her sight had been compromised as her lids clenched shut, refusing to open. All she could do is cry out helplessly beneath him, a prisoner in her own body, conquered, _beaten_.

 

Unable to take the sweet torture a moment more, she gathered her strength and managed to finally escape him, twisting her lower body away from him, dodging any further attack. As a result, his hand slipped from her smallclothes, though he quickly caught it before letting it linger on her hip.

 

Finally, she had been able to wrench open her eyes to meet his as he softly chuckled.

 

"Seems to 've worked," he teased.

 

" _What_?" she managed to ask as she caught her breath.

 

"My hand's not cold anymore," he explained with a shy but satisfied grin.

 

For what felt like the first time ever, she'd had no biting retort. Her mind felt soft and fuzzy. All she could manage to do was lazily watch him as he brought his webbed fingers to his lips to suck them clean. Arya instantly flushed, averting her gaze as he moved in to kiss her.

 

"You're going to kiss me? _Now_?" she asked, almost disgusted as she half-heartedly held her hands out to stop him.

 

" _Absolutely_ ," he said just before pressing his wet lips to hers.

 

The taste didn't dissuade her at all, rather, be it that or simply his kiss, she felt reinvigorated enough to start pawing at him. She slipped her hands underneath his tunic, dragging her nails from his chest down to his abdomen. The strength of his kiss had faltered under her touch, the control finally shifting back to her.

 

However, Gendry had locked his fingers around her wrist to halt her hand right as she reached the waistline of his breeches. Inspecting his face a moment, she saw a range of emotions she hadn't been expecting—Fear, guilt, reluctance.

 

"What is it?" she asked, her tone perhaps a bit too angry.

 

"Nothing," he answered too quickly. _A lie_.

 

"It's not _nothing_. I may not have done it before, but I know enough about the world to know men don't just stop a woman who's reaching for their cock."

 

He sighed, "It feels a little too soon."

 

"Time isn't a luxury we can afford," she reminded him. "Do you even want to do it?"

 

"Of _course_ I do."

 

"Then act like it," she commanded him, reaching out to paw at him again.

 

" _Arya_ ," he warned her, stopping her hands once more.

 

He met her seething gaze with the same scared expression, "There are some things I'd like to get off of my chest, first."

 

"Then start talking," she folded her arms as she lay beside him.

 

Settling onto his back, he pulled the furs more tightly around them as the fireplace crackled in the distance, sending its light flickering on the stone walls. "We should get sleep. It's been a long day. _Too_ long a day. We'll talk tomorrow?"

 

"After tonight, you have about four more chances to say the word _tomorrow_ , Gendry, until you're out of them."

 

"Yes, I know that. And we'll talk then. _Tomorrow_."

 

As he turned to wrap his arm around her, his eyes fell closed. It must've been a long day for him, as he'd fallen asleep in a matter of minutes. Part of her wanted to be angry with him for turning her down, but she wasn't. Even though she had been afraid whatever it was he had to tell her would upset her, or perhaps _him_. Either way, she dreaded it, considering it had something to do with his comfort going forward. It was Arya's turn to toss and turn as she slept beside him, worrying about what another day of inescapable winter had in store for them, and whether or not five tomorrows had really been all that was left before tomorrows were gone for good.

 


	9. The Bastard and the Prince

"Ready to talk?" the brown-eyed girl asked, startling Gendry. He'd already been in the habit of leaving Arya's bed long before she had, and she, in the habit of wandering down to the forge to check on him in the morning before going about her own business.

 

"To _you_? No," he scoffed. "Besides, I've got work to do. We can talk later."

 

"How's your hand, anyway?" she inquired, ignoring him as she grabbed his still-bandaged left hand.

 

"Slowin' me down. All the more reason I need to get back to work," he said, wiping the sweat and grit from his brow with his right sleeve.

 

Before she could probe him with any further questions, Jon, of all people, began to wander over. Gendry's expression had dropped as he approached. She raised an eyebrow at her brother expectantly, before realizing he wouldn't recognize her. Reluctantly, she slipped around the corner out of sight, but stayed within earshot.

 

"Gendry," he announced after closing the distance between himself and the smith. "Hear you've been hard at work."

 

"I have been. Sun up to sun down, Your Grace," he replied, " _Er—_ m'lord? No, that's not right either, is it?"

 

Jon laughed. _It's good to hear him laugh_ , Arya thought. "Just Jon is fine."

 

"Alright," Gendry said reluctantly, "Jon."

 

Arya peeked from around the corner, noticing her brother had been fondling a chunk of dragonglass as he moved closer to Gendry, squaring his shoulders before continuing, "Been hearin' some other things concernin' you."

 

This time, Gendry stayed silent, looking rather uncomfortable as he waited. Jon took his time, likely letting the suspense build.

 

"Like you runnin' around Winterfell with two different girls," he explained. "Normally, I wouldn't care about what you do in your free time. Except I hear one of 'em happens to be my _sister_. So that makes it my business."

 

"I can assure you, Jon, it's _not_ what it sounds like. Or... _looks_ like," Gendry's words spilled confidently and whip-quick. After all, the _other_ girl he'd been running around with was just a dead girl Arya had been temporarily inhabiting. _How could one simply explain away that sort of thing?_

 

"I should hope not," her brother falsely smiled, clapping Gendry's shoulder before wandering through the area, surveying the other men at work. He hadn't said much, though the looming threat was implied.

 

Arya began seething at her brother's meddling. _What did Jon take her for_? She wasn't some little girl or some damsel that needed protecting. She could do as she pleased, and she could clearly fend for herself if need be.

 

Pushing herself from the wall she'd been leaning against, she shoved past Gendry, on a new mission to confront her brother. Clearly, she'd been upset that Jon had the gall to even approach him about her.

 

" _Hey_ ," Gendry nearly shouted as he caught her arm. "Please tell me you're not goin' off to make this worse, somehow."

 

Arya tried shaking his grip on her, but he wouldn't budge.

 

"He's got a lot on his mind, let him be," he pleaded. "It's not worth it."

 

"Why should _he_ care?"

 

"Keep your voice down," he quietly reminded her.

 

"Don't you have work to do?" she spat, finally managing to shrug off his hold on her sleeve. Before he could protest any more, she was gone, and he didn't chase after her. First, she returned to her room to stow away her disguise, clean the blood from her face, and to tie her hair back into her usual bun.

 

Quickly, she made her way to her father's old study, rather sure she'd find Jon there with at least a few of his advisors. The door had been closed, though she could hear voices behind it, particularly her brother's unmistakable gruff voice, and that of a quick-talking Ser Davos.

 

Throwing caution to the wind, Arya swung the door open, barging into the room, meeting the curious gazes of not only Jon and Davos, but of the Queen, Sansa, and Tyrion Lannister.

 

" _Arya_?" Jon's face had been stricken with shock upon seeing his sister unexpectedly appear before him. "Now is not a good time."

 

Ignoring him, she turned to Daenerys and made an effort to soften her tone, "Excuse me, Your Grace. I don't mean to interrupt," she turned to face Jon once more, "I am here simply to tell my _brother_ to stop interfering in my personal affairs."

 

Turning around as if to leave, she could hear Jon shuffling to his feet behind her.

 

" _Affairs_ ?" he scoffed, looking utterly disgusted once she turned back to face him. "Mind tellin' me how in seven hells a _bastard_ managed to sneak his way into my sister's _bedroom_?"

 

"A _bastard_ ?" Arya barked. "He's _lowborn_."

 

The siblings engaged in something of a stare-down before Jon bothered to clarify, "He's _Robert Baratheon's_ bastard son."

 

"He's _what_?" Arya and Daenerys simultaneously shouted.

 

" _Jon_ ," Davos nearly growled under his breath, stepping forward to try to hush any further outburst, though he'd already let Gendry's secret slip in a room full of people who clearly didn't know, and probably _shouldn't_.

 

"He's the _Usurper's_ son?" Daenerys donned a hurt expression, likely having traveled with Gendry for weeks without so much as a clue.

 

"He's a good lad," Jon quietly assured his Queen with a sideways glance.

 

"Oh, so he's a _good lad_ , now, is he?" Arya countered, breaking into the laughter of a mad woman.

 

He merely glared at her before turning back to Daenerys, "He never chose his father, Your Grace, just as you hadn't. A child should not be held responsible for the sins of his father."

 

 _Curious_ , Arya thought, as she watched the Queen's tenseness ease with Jon's simple set of statements. Daenerys settled further into the chair beside him. They must've discussed the elephant in the room at some point—the heinous way in which the Queen's father had killed their grandfather and uncle. It was clear that not only had Jon harbored no ill will toward the last Targaryen, he had harbored something else for her entirely.

 

"You have _some_ nerve, Jon," Arya spat, " _Everyone_ can see you're in love with Queen Daenerys. You're a bastard, too. But that didn't seem to give _you_ any pause. Why should it stop me?"

 

"Now you're in _love_ with him?" Jon asked, his face contorted in utter disbelief, though he made no effort to deny the accusation about his true feelings for the Queen.

 

Sansa and Tyrion remained silent, exchanging glances and raising their eyebrows to each other as new tidbits of information trickled out. It was as if they shared a secret language all their own.

 

"Jon, if it's of _any_ consolation," Davos interrupted, "They grew up together. They knew each other for years. Traveled together, held prisoner together. Arya was with the Brotherhood when they sold Gendry to Melisandre."

 

Upon hearing the Red Woman's name, Jon's demeanor shifted uncomfortably, and that fact had not been lost on Daenerys, who curiously examined him.

 

"Is it true, Arya?" Jon asked, his tone suddenly relaxed as he considered the new information.

 

She quickly nodded before turning to Davos, "Is that why, Ser? The _Red Witch_ wanted him _because_ he's a bastard? And the goldcloaks? That's why they were after him?"

 

Scanning her memories, Arya recalled how many times the word bastard was thrown around when the goldcloaks came calling, never quite linking it to Gendry, even though they'd singled him out, knowing his name and that he carried a bull's head helmet. After all, the boy, himself, had had no clue about his father's identity. _Of course he's a bastard_ , she thought, as the pieces began falling into place.

 

Davos nodded, looking a bit grim as he did so, "That's why I helped him escape after what she'd done to him. He was an innocent. I couldn't let him die for the sake of her _evil_ god." By the time he'd finished, he'd been shouting. Perhaps she had more in common with Ser Davos than she had first thought.

 

"What did she do to him?" Arya whispered, looking aghast.

 

"I'm sorry, _Melisandre_? The Priestess from Asshai?" Daenerys interrupted.

 

"You know her, _too_ , Your Grace?" Arya boldly inquired.

 

"She came to me at Dragonstone and told me to summon the King in the North, _Jon Snow_ , insisting that we both serve a role in bringing the Dawn," the Queen monotonously recounted her tale as she gestured toward Arya's older brother.

 

In turn, Jon's gaze shot to Daenerys. It was clear she failed to mention that detail to him before now. For a moment, Arya felt a bit guilty for inciting all of this new information after barging in uninvited.

 

"Ser Davos, would you mind speaking with me a moment, alone?" Arya asked. The man had helped Gendry escape. He'd also called the Red Woman's god _evil_. She needed to know more. Before he could answer, Samwell Tarly entered the room wheeling Bran inside. Everyone stopped bickering to face them.

 

"What is it, Bran?" Jon approached his brother, clearly concerned at the prospect of some new revelation the boy might have in store for them, using either his skinchanging abilities or perhaps his greensight.

 

"I must speak with you alone, Jon."

 

"Everyone out," Jon insisted, sensing the urgency though Bran's voice had been flat. "At once."

 

Arya lingered a moment as everyone rose from their seats and headed toward the door.

 

" _Not you_ ," he pleaded to Daenerys, who'd also risen from her chair.

 

"Jon," Bran warned him. "You might reconsider."

 

"Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of my Queen," he insisted, looking like a lost puppy as his dark eyes fell upon the silver-haired woman beside him. Daenerys hesitantly sat back down, seemingly unsure whether or not she should stay.

 

"Very well," Bran said.

 

"Sam? Arya?" Jon said expectantly, as he waited for them to leave.

 

"Sam can stay," Bran insisted, "He already knows."

 

Arya tightly folded her arms, glaring at both of her brothers before she made her way out of the door. Jon closed it behind her, locking the four of them inside.

 

Sansa and Tyrion had vanished from the hallway by the time Arya had made it outside, though Ser Davos remained, likely at her previous request to speak alone.

 

"Ser Davos. Thank you for waiting."

 

"Of course, m'lady," he said, gesturing for her to take the lead before locking his forearms behind his back. They began to make their way through the thoroughly chilled halls.

 

"I tried to warn 'im, but he's a stubborn kid."

 

Arya, instead, focused on the matter at hand, "So Gendry's a bastard. The bastard of a _King_ , no less."

 

"Afraid so, m'lady."

 

"You said you helped him escape? How? From _where_?"

 

"From Dragonstone. I was servin' Stannis Baratheon at the time."

 

"What was it she did to him, exactly?"

 

Davos looked around the hall, making sure no one was in earshot before answering, "When Stannis and I entered the room, she had him tied up to a bed by his hands and feet, most of his clothes stripped away, and leeches all over his body. She plucked 'em off as he screamed, and started tossing them into a flame. Horrible thing to see," he said, disgust tightly laced through each word.

 

She couldn't help but crack her knuckles as she envisioned the scene. "I'm going to kill her," she promised him.

 

Davos chuckled, "Not if I get to her first, m'lady."

 

"Why? Because of what she did to Gendry?"

 

"She burned Stannis Baratheon's only daughter alive. She was just thirteen, had the kindest heart in all seven kingdoms," he admitted with a quivering voice full of raw emotion. "I learned to read from Shireen. I think of her every day."

 

Arya let out something of a howl upon hearing such disgusting news. No, she hadn't met Shireen, but she knew full well an innocent child didn't deserve death, certainly not one of the most horrific deaths imaginable. To top it off, she was Gendry's kin, and sounded every bit as such.

 

"I'm going to find her, as soon as I find a way to ensure her death is as slow and agonizing as possible."

 

"And to think, your brother had the nerve to—what, threaten Gendry, was it?"

 

"More or less."

 

He laughed, "Clearly, you can handle yourself, m'lady."

 

"I can handle myself, that's true. And _Gendry_ , if need be."

 

Davos held out his hand to stop her, checking the hallway once more before leaning in. "I'm not sure I should be sayin' anything, but I have seen him runnin' around with one of the servant girls. Might be why your brother stepped in on your behalf," he confessed, clearly torn about even bringing it up. "But I've seen the way he looks at her, m'lady. She comes in the morning and he spends his time tryin' to shrug her off, lookin' relieved as soon as she leaves."

 

Arya pursed her lips, trying not to laugh, knowing full well there _hadn't_ been some secret girl on the side. "I trust him," she simply said.

 

"Good," the older man replied, "For some reason, I do, too. He is a good lad."

 

"He is," she grinned. _The best_ , she thought.

 

.  .  .

 

Arya lingered outside after Davos left her, unsure what to do with herself. She had half a mind to confront Gendry about his father, but remembered he did have work to do, and as much as bothered her, it could wait until what little daylight there'd been had faded.

 

Just then, Jon came bursting through the door of the keep, looking rather perturbed and upset. Arya hung back, watching as he paced, his cape whooshing around his legs with each turn. Furiously, he shook his head from side to side, looking on the verge of either laughter or tears, perhaps even both.

 

Unlike the many onlookers, Arya wasn't as intimidated by Jon, and might even help improve his obviously foul mood. Regardless, she approached him cautiously, "You're stomping around here like a madman. What's got you so angry?"

 

"I _don't_ want to talk about it, Arya. And _don't_ call me a madman. _Ever_ again."

 

"Fine," she said, throwing her hands up as if to yield. "But, too bad. I _do_ want to talk about it. So, talk."

 

With something between a growl and a cackle, he finally offered an explanation, "I'm angry with your _father_."

 

" _My_ father?" she asked, wondering what in the world he'd meant by that. "You mean Ned, who's been dead for _years_ ? You're angry with _Ned_ all of a sudden?"

 

He simply glared at her before turning his gaze back into the void, the impenetrable mask of clouds the sky had worn for weeks.

 

"Walk with me, Arya," he said, grabbing her by the arm. _Forcefully_.

 

After a moment or two, his grip on her had not budged an inch and it was starting to hurt.

 

"Jon, let go of me."

 

Finally, his look of sheer contempt had softened as he realized what he'd done. " _Shit_ , sorry," he said, unhinging his knuckles from her sleeve.

 

Struggling to keep up with his all-too-brisk pace, she asked, "What do you mean _my_ father? He's your father, too."

 

Jon merely snorted, in a way that truly sounded _mad_. Arya trudged through the snow after him, realizing a bit too late that it would be easier if she followed behind him instead, using his footprints to better maneuver her way through the buildup.

 

Once they reached the crypts, and Jon tried pulling the heavy ironwood door open, though it wouldn't budge, trapped under nearly a foot of snow and ice. He growled again, using all of his body weight to heave it open. With a thunderous boom, the door banged against the outside wall, sending an echo through the castle walls and a puff of white snowflakes into the air like smoke. Everyone within earshot had stopped whatever it was they were doing to turn and watch the spectacle.

 

"Jon," Arya said, though he ignored her, swiftly moving down the spiral staircase into the crypts. For a moment he had her worried, and she wondered what he was about to do to Ned's tomb. Again, she chased after her brother, who had been in clear need of supervision. Once she reached the bottom of the steps, she spotted his black figure crouched on the ground like a shadowcat.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

He'd taken a torch from a sconce on the wall, which had sat on the ground beside him as he felt around in the darkness. Finally, he managed to find what looked like a stone. "Give me your dagger," he commanded.

 

Arya hesitated a moment, before handing over her small blade. Jon struck the steel to stone, creating enough of a spark to ignite the torch, and to send a small chunk of stone skidding across the ground.

 

Reluctantly, she followed him further down the corridor, "You aren't down here to desecrate his tomb, are you?"

 

"Don't be silly, Arya," he said, shaking his head.

 

"Is it silly? You're acting crazy right now, Jon."

 

Jon swiftly turned to face her, "I told you _not_ to call me crazy."

 

"No, you told me not to call you a _madman,_ " she took his threat in stride.

 

"Don't call me _either_."

 

They had finally reached Ned's tomb, though curiously, Jon had strolled right past it.

 

"Jon?"

 

"C'mon," he simply said. Arya took one last look at Ned's poorly-sculpted face before scurrying to catch up with her brother. Finally, he stopped in front of Lyanna Stark's tomb.

 

"Do you care to start explaining yourself, Jon? This little adventure of yours is starting to make me uncomfortable," she said, staring up at her aunt's face.

 

"You wanted to know why I'm upset with Ned."

 

"Yes..."

 

"He promised me the next time we saw each other, he'd tell me who my mother was. But he died before I could see him again."

 

"That's _hardly_ his fault, Jon."

 

"I know. That part, that isn't his fault. But the fact that he never bothered to tell me, when all this time, she was right here," with glassy eyes, he looked up to Lyanna Stark's likeness.

 

Arya gulped, "What are you saying, Jon?"

 

"I'm saying that Lyanna Stark is my mother."

 

"No."

 

" _Yes_."

 

"But they were brother and sister..." her voice trailed off.

 

"Ned was never my father. He's my _uncle_."

 

Arya felt a shiver throughout her body that had nothing to do with the chill of the crypts. "Is this what Bran told you?" she quietly asked.

 

"Yes."

 

Knowing it had come from Bran had left her little room to doubt it. She asked, "Who's your father, then?"

 

Jon looked at her, an unenthused eyebrow raised, "She wasn't kidnapped, she wasn't raped, she wasn't killed. She died in childbirth."

 

Arya corrected the story in her mind. _Prince Rhaegar_. "I'm sorry, Jon."

 

"For what?"

 

"I don't know. I'm just... sorry," she offered, in disbelief.

 

He sighed, "She ran away with him by choice. They were in _love_. Married, even."

 

"And Bran saw all of this?"

 

"With Sam's help, apparently," he nodded.

 

"So you're," she lowered her voice as if the dead might overhear, "a _Targaryen_?"

 

Jon nodded, though never broke his gaze from Lyanna's.

 

"But what about Dae-"

 

Before she could finish, a soft voice called from behind them, "Jon?"

 

The silver-haired Dragon Queen had slowly approached, hands elegantly clasped in front of her as soft curls fell to either side of her face, snowflakes piled on her hair and lashes.

 

"Bran said there was a good chance I might find you here."

 

"You shouldn't have come alone," he said to her, sounding both angry and worried. "Where is Grey Worm? Jorah? Where are your guards?"

 

Jon was right to be upset. He took extra care to look after Daenerys, whom the northern lords were still reluctant to accept not only as their ruler, but as a battle commander, despite her reputation and her _dragons_.

 

" _Outside_ ," she simply answered. "We need to talk, Jon."

 

"Do we?" he laughed as if on the verge of snapping. "What is there to say?"

 

"A great many things," she assured him, her voice a bit shaky, though composed.

 

"I'm not angry with you, Dany," he said. Arya had been surprised by the familiarity of such a nickname for a woman as formidable as Daenerys Targaryen.

 

"But you are angry. I understand. Let me help you through it."

 

As the Queen took her brother's gloved hand, Arya backed away slowly, wordlessly finding her way out of the crypts and back into the snow. She gave the Queen's guards a reassuring nod as she passed. The footprints Jon had left on the way there had already been half-filled with new snow. At this rate, the army of the dead would have to dig them out if they sought a fight.

 

Arya's legs grew tired as she fought against the thick accumulation, making her way back toward the great keep. Jon had a plethora of things to do and plan for before the Night King came. Only a handful of people had seen the mythical foe thus far, and Arya feared most of those milling about the castle didn't fully believe Jon's claim, even though he'd been virtually incapable of telling a lie. It was one of the many things she loved about him. It wasn't right for Bran to unload this new revelation on their brother in the middle of the world ending.

 

Marching through the hallways of the keep, she finally reached Bran's room. Barging inside, in the same style she had earlier in the day, she found him alone, staring into the flames as she had expected.

 

"Brandon."

 

He turned his head, stone-faced with a cold, unfeeling gaze. _How appropriate_ , Arya thought.

 

"Mind explaining why you decided to fuck with Jon's head _right_ before the dead march on Winterfell?"

 

Bran blinked a few times before turning his gaze back to the fire. In a monotone voice, he provided his answer, "Jon seeks the truth. He deserves to know his entire life was a lie. That the entire Rebellion was built on a lie."

 

Arya folded her arms, "But right _now_? What good could it do him? You could've waited."

 

Sighing before turning back to Arya, it seemed almost as if he had been experiencing _irritation_ , but she knew better. He further justified his actions, "Wouldn't you want to know the truth before the end?"

 

Arya's pugnacious expression had fallen as she considered his words, " _The end_? Is this your way of telling me Jon dies?"

 

Unmoving and unblinking, Bran continued staring at her, making no effort to confirm nor deny his eerie statement.

 

"Brandon," she hissed as she closed the distance between them. Grabbing his sleeve, she threatened him, "If you mean to tell me our brother is going to die-"

 

"Cousin," he emotionlessly corrected her.

 

" _Brother_ ," she growled, "You'd better look back into those flames and come up with a better plan, a better solution. For our _brother_."

 

The force with which she let go of his sleeve had caused his chair to wobble. For a moment, she felt regretful. Under normal circumstances, she'd never lay a hand on Bran, rather, saving her wrath for anyone who dared to hurt her younger brother. But his behavior was _unacceptable_. Both she and Bran had been close with Jon ever since they were children. He wasn't trying hard enough to fight. Of course, it's emotion that drives a person to act. _What I wouldn't give to lend him my anger_ , she thought to herself.

 

Trying another tactic, she knelt beside him. " _Please_ , Bran," she begged, squeezing his hand.

 

"He's getting in the way of what I can see."

 

"Who?"

 

"The Night King," he said as his dark eyes fixed on hers. It was enough to rattle her spine with an icy shiver. Somewhere in her mind, she knew Bran had been battling with his own powers as well as against the Night King's, but something about the look he just gave her finally made her understand the weight of it, and how much his constant psychic battle against the mind of a literal monster must've drained him.

 

"Try, Bran. Go further back if he's blocking you now. Try finding the Children, see how they defeated them the first time. _Any_ minor thing might make a world of difference. _Please_ ," tears had pricked her eyes as she begged for her brother's aid.

 

Unlike Sansa, Arya could never quite believe their younger brother was utterly lost. If the real Bran were inside this shell, she'd have to get through to him, particularly if Jon's life depended on it.

 

"I'll see what I can do," he said to her with a blank, unreadable face.

 

Arya rose, straightening her tunic as she walked away from him. She hesitated upon reaching his door for just a moment. As she opened it, she heard a small voice behind her.

 

"I don't want him to die."

 

" _Good_ ," she said. "Use that fear to help equip him with whatever he needs to defeat them. You _must_."

 

Arya moved through the doorway, carefully shutting the door behind her. The hall outside had been empty, much to her relief, as a wave of grief overtook her. Her body began racking with sobs despite her best efforts to keep her emotions in check. She was certain Bran had been right, he'd been right about too many things, about _everything_. Though she had thus far acted as though the threat of war hadn't fazed her, knowing that her favorite person might spend his final hours battling the reanimated dead to no avail had sent cracks rippling right through her very foundation. The dire prediction had affected her deeply, even on levels she thought she'd since closed off.

 

Feeling as if her heart had been run through with a dagger, she slumped against the wall, melting her way down to the stone tiles. She had just gotten him back after all these years, she couldn't bear the thought of losing him again, this time for good.

 

 _Valar morghulis_ , the dreaded words flashed in her mind. Her left hand lingered on Needle's pommel as she wept.

 

 _"Not Jon,"_ she whispered to nothing, to no one. _Not Jon_ , her mind reeled as it chanted its plea to any god there might be, whether they be old, new, faceless or plain evil.

 

 _Not Jon, not Jon_...

 


	10. A Beauty and Her Beasts

Before composing herself, Arya allowed for a few moments of weakness as she considered her options. The longer she sat in the hallway mulling over the dire vision, the more she felt that devastation dissolving within the boiling pot of her anger. They still had time left to ensure an alternative outcome, though admittedly, _not much_.

 

Adjacent to Bran's room was Rickon's old room, since repurposed for Samwell Tarly and his family. It was good to see her brother's old room go to use rather than sit unused, gathering dust as a shrine to his death.

 

After all, Sam was Jon's closest friend, and arguably Bran's as well, assuming he could _have_ friends in his dormant state. Arya hadn't spoken much to Samwell, no one had, _really_ , as he'd always been locked away with the many books he'd brought from Oldtown's Citadel. More importantly, Sam had been helping Bran direct his visions in more constructive ways. After all, with little to no emotion, Bran had nothing to steer him in the right direction. While Bran's apathy incensed most who tried to crack his icy exterior, Sam's patience with the boy had never faltered.

 

Rising to her feet, she walked to her youngest brother's old room, lightly knocking against the wood as unwelcome memories of little Rickon flooded her mind. Forever preserved in her mind's eye as the little wolf of Winterfell—the bleary image of a rowdy boy standing before the silhouette of a dark direwolf, looming just beyond him. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered her brother. Arya smiled as she wiped them away, a pang of sadness tugging at her aching heart. Though she'd lived more years without him than _with_ him, she missed her baby brother terribly.

 

As she patiently awaited an answer to her knock, the conversation behind the closed door had since halted. Instead, the voices gave way to a hectic shuffling. After another moment, an exhausted-looking Gilly opened the door with baby Sam at her hip. Simply staring at Arya, wide-eyed, the mousy-haired woman said nothing, not even _hello_.

 

"I don't mean to intrude, but I was hoping to talk to Samwell," she said. Mouth agape, Gilly simply stared at her, until Arya added, "It's _urgent_."

 

"Of course, m'lady," she hesitantly said after a moment, blinking her eyes rapidly as if coming to after a deep slumber. She stepped aside, allowing Arya to pass before gently shutting the door behind them.

 

The room had been in a state of disarray, books placed on nearly every surface, weighted objects holding them open to designated pages. Scribbled papers had been strewn about, seemingly without rhyme or reason. It's no wonder Gilly had been in something of a daze. They had clearly been shut away trying their best to find answers, likely at the expense of their own wellbeing.

 

Arya reached out to grab one of the random sheets of parchment closest to where she'd stood. It had a series of strange patterns—hollowed rings, spirals and circles. After a quick scan of her memory, she couldn't place them.

 

"Do these mean anything?" she asked before turning the page toward Sam.

 

He seemed to snap out of his own daze upon hearing her voice. When he looked up at her, she noticed something that had escaped her an hour or so ago when she first saw him. The skin surrounding his eyes had been dark, almost ashy. He looked deliriously exhausted, just like Gilly.

 

"That's what I'm working on. Bran's been seeing these symbols in his visions. It might be that they're trying to communicate with him through these images."

 

Arya looked at the sheet once more, hoping to discern a message or pattern from the seemingly random shapes.

 

"I saw something similar once, north of the Wall," he added.

 

"North of the Wall?" she asked, hoping he'd continue as she further examined the marks.

 

"We came upon a cache of dragonglass under the snow. It was wrapped in a Night's Watch cloak and stashed beneath a stone carving. Whoever left that cache there must've done so as a warning or a clue."

 

Heaving a sigh, Arya knew that now was the time to broach the topic that led her to Sam in the first place, "Speaking of clues, Bran just dropped a pretty significant one on me just now."

 

"Oh, _no_ ," Sam whispered as his eyes fell closed.

 

"He made it sound as though Jon _must_ know the truth about himself before _the end_."

 

"Arya," Sam said, softening his tone as if to comfort her, "No one fully understands the visions, not even Bran. I wouldn't say it guarantees Jon's... _death_."

 

"Well, what _exactly_ did he see? Did he tell you?"

 

Sam's chest deflated as he heaved a sigh of his own, "He saw Jon falling to his knees before the Night King with a smile on his face, just before succumbing to his wounds. From what I gather, it was just a momentary flash out of context, though the context is not hard to guess."

 

"Has he seen anything else of the future?"

 

"King's Landing in ruins, or, the Red Keep at least. The same sort of flash, without any context."

 

Arya fell into the seat across from Sam, folding her arms over crossed legs. " _No_ ," she stubbornly said.

 

" _No_?"

 

"He's not going to die," she firmly stated. "I won't allow it. If Bran is being shown this vision, then perhaps it's because we're meant to stop it from happening."

 

Sam didn't say anything in response, rather he looked out the small window, showing nothing but white as far as the eye could see. It was then she realized how much Jon had truly meant to him. _Good_ , she thought, _If we work together, we might just save him, yet_.

 

"I'd like to help. I haven't had anything constructive to do and I'm sick of milling about and biding my time. Put me to work, Sam," she pleaded. "Show me what to read, tell me how to help my brothers."

 

.  .  .

 

"You look like you've seen a ghost, girl," a deep voice rattled above her.

 

Arya snapped from her gaze, aimlessly hanging on the battlements, painted white with snow. In her distraction, she'd failed to recognize the sound of his footfalls, perhaps disguised in the distant rumbling of restless soldiers, just waiting for the chance to die for their Queen.

 

Turning to Sandor, she smirked, " _Yours_ , for instance?"

 

Snorting in amusement, he pushed his arm against the wall for support as he leaned in, "Speaking of—made any more progress on that list of doomed men?"

 

"Some," she admitted. "Though I hear Thoros is already gone."

 

"Aye," he confirmed, his voice matching his suddenly grave expression.

 

"You, _too_ , Hound?"

 

"What do you mean _me too_?"

 

"Gendry looked upset about Thoros, too, when he told me he had died. And now _you_ , as well."

 

"Gendry? The whinger?"

 

" _Whinger_ ?" Arya scrunched her face up, "What's _that_ mean?"

 

"Means he did nothin' but complain the whole time north of the Wall. Whinged about the cold, being sold to a naked witch who tried to kill him... You name it, he bitched it."

 

 _A naked witch_ ? Arya wondered, trying not to look visibly shaken by the sudden, abhorrent image of the _Red Woman_ naked with Gendry. _Had she been the one...?_ Somewhere behind her steely demeanor, her heart had fallen right from her chest and into the pit of her stomach. Quickly, she managed to twist the unwanted nausea into yet more anger, channeling it right at Sandor, instead. "You give others too much credit for their... _aliveness_ ," she snapped.

 

"Alive...ness?"

 

"If you can make up words, so can I."

 

"Whinging _is_ a word, girl."

 

She shrugged. " _So_ is... aliveness," she insisted, though in truth she hadn't been so sure. "Regardless. My point still stands."

 

"Did you have a point? Could've fooled me," his voice was biting but his expression gave him away. He was enjoying himself.

 

"You've always acted as if being alive is the single most important thing there is."

 

"Is it _not_?"

 

"No, it _isn't_ ," she hissed. "My father is _still_ better than any living man, and today, he's little more than a memory and a pile of bones. Sometimes those that live only do so out of sheer luck or treachery."

 

"What does this have to do with the _whinger_?"

 

"Stop calling him that," she warned him with a low growl.

 

"I'll stop callin' him that when he stops _whingin_ '," he chuckled, folding his arms.

 

She merely sighed, "Let's say you're right, and being alive is the most important thing there is. If you can't complain about nearly being killed, then what _can_ you complain about?"

 

" _Nothing_ , preferably."

 

"And you _wonder_ why no one likes you," she flatly said, the hint of a smirk on her face.

 

"That's one thing I don't wonder about," he laughed. "But _you_ seem to like me. That _does_ make me wonder."

 

"I'm starting to wonder why, myself," she snapped again, though she was secretly delighted to be bickering with him. She'd missed it, particularly after spending so much time in Braavos. The faceless men had bland, tasteless personalities, nothing with which to whet her wit and keep her sharp.

 

Wondering why the conversation had come to a sudden standstill, it was then that she spotted Sansa in the distance. Red hair like a fire against the dull, colorless palette of snow, ice, and stone.

 

"Your sister likes me, too," he said as she approached.

 

"I _doubt_ it," Arya snidely scoffed as the pair of them eyed Sansa. She wasn't sure what to make of Sandor's tone just now, regarding her older sister whom she felt protective of. After all, Sansa was the very definition of a northern beauty—with skin as pale as snow, the cold had done nothing but lend splashes of pink to her cheeks and nose, somehow adding to her allure. Unlike when she was a girl, Sansa no longer celebrated her good looks, instead, going to great lengths to play down her features, as well as hide her figure under clothes and cloaks that looked more like imprisonments than dresses. Nevertheless, she attracted men all the same.

 

"You'll see," he quietly said as the redhead made her way over to them, holding her stiff skirts aloft as her cloak lightly dragged on the foot-flattened banks of snow behind her.

 

At first, she looked upset, though her face seemed to soften the closer she came to them, almost in relief. After another moment, a smile even tugged at her reluctant lips as she picked up pace to bridge the distance.

 

"See?" he probed her, whispering through his grin.

 

"Shut up," she sneered. "She's happy to see _me_."

 

"No, little lady. She sees _you_ every day."

 

"Shut up, I said," she commanded again as Sansa was well within earshot, now. Gliding across the white banks like a raven, she'd been dressed all in black as if in mourning. _Appropriate_ , she thought to herself.

 

"Lady Stark," Arya greeted her sister with a bit of sarcasm weaving through her tone.

 

"Arya," Sansa replied, a suspicious eyebrow cocked. "Sandor," she turned to greet the giant man, without so much as a lick of fear, scorn, or disgust. _Did she actually like him_? Arya couldn't help but wonder.

 

"Little bird," Sandor greeted her with something of a nickname, his voice smoothed just as the hard lines of his face had, simply upon seeing her.

 

"What are you two doing out here in the snow?" Sansa asked, rubbing together leather-gloved hands for friction.

 

"I needed fresh air."

 

"How come?"

 

"I've been helping someone... look for something," she explained.

 

Sansa lightly nodded though didn't press the explanation any further. Though she'd been looking squarely at Sandor as she spoke, she inquired, "I was hoping to speak with you alone, Arya."

 

"I was just leaving," Sandor said, offering the Lady a slight bow before he slipped away. Strangely, her sister's gaze hung on the man for a moment before opening the door to the keep, gesturing Arya inside.

 

As they walked toward Sansa's quarters, Arya couldn't help but inquire upon noticing the unspoken bond between them, "He once told me he saved you from men who would beat and rape you."

 

"Did he?"

 

"At the time, I thought him a liar."

 

"He wasn't lying," she confirmed as she visibly backslid into painful memories of a childhood spent at King's Landing. Sansa kept her secrets closely guarded, only vaguely hinting at her past trauma and abuse, though by this point, Arya knew all of it had been _very_ real.

 

"I know that now," she replied, certain that their relationship had meant more to the pair of them than they'd freely admit. "He's a good man, more-so than he lets on."

 

"He is," Sansa simply agreed, not indulging much in Arya's curiosity about her relationship with the giant, husky Hound.

 

"Part of me is surprised you'd agree."

 

"And why is that?" her sister asked, her tone flat and unenthused.

 

"Because he looks like a monster."

 

"No, he _doesn't_ ," Sansa snapped, stopping in her tracks. Her outstretched arms found Arya's shoulders, gripping them hard as she continued, "Monsters look like _Joffrey Baratheon_. Monsters look like _Ramsay Bolton_. One of the many things I learned at King's Landing was that looks are both deceiving and _irrelevant_."

 

With a slight shove, Sansa let her little sister free before continuing on, her heavy boots now colliding with the stone tiles, her irritation echoing against the walls.

 

"Joffrey was _not_ a Baratheon, he was a _Lannister_ ," Arya hissed, feeling oddly protective of Gendry and his kin as she caught up to her sister. "Speaking of Lannisters, you _must_ deem looks irrelevant if you're hanging around _the Imp_ so much."

 

Sansa furrowed her brow, "Excuse me?"

 

"A _Lannister_ , Sansa?"

 

"He's not like Cersei. Lord Tyrion has always been kind to me. _And_ to Jon."

 

"Speaking of Jon..." Arya's voice trailed off as they'd finally reached their destination.

 

"Yes," Sansa said, slipping her hand into her pocket in search of her room key. "We _will_ speak of Jon. _Inside_."

 

After unlocking the door, she stepped aside to let Arya in before pulling the door closed and locking it behind them. Still feeling a bit uneasy upon being in her parents' old room, Arya wondered how Sansa ever got used to sleeping in their parents' bed. _Perhaps it's because she's something of a ghost, too_ , she thought, taking note of how much Sansa favored their mother, Catelyn.

 

Arya was the first to break the silence as her sister shook the snow from her hair and cloak, "How did you find out? Did Jon tell you, or did Bran?"

 

"When Lord Tyrion and I returned to the study, it was completely empty. I sought out Bran to see what had happened, and he encouraged me to find Jon."

 

"In the crypts, I presume."

 

"Yes," she confirmed, stomping the pesky snow from her boots.

 

Arya sighed as she watched her sister fidget, "I hope you're taking the news better than he is."

 

"Well, I certainly wasn't happy to find _Daenerys_ down there with him."

 

"Why do you say it like _that_?"

 

"They're too familiar," Sansa shook her head in disapproval.

 

"They're in love," Arya quietly said, already regretting her choice of words the moment they left her lips.

 

" _Exactly._  Not only is falling in love a dangerous move, there's simply no time for it," she flatly stated, _ever_ the politician. "Besides, she's his _aunt._  It's not as though it can go any further."

 

"How can you be so sure about that?"

 

"His _aunt_ , Arya," Sansa said again, as if repetition would drive her point home. To Arya, however, it had not.

 

"Perhaps it's already too late for them," Arya considered. She admired Daenerys, and the news that Jon had actually been _Rhaegar's_ son did nothing to dissuade her opinion that they'd be a good match. "They would've had no reason at all to believe they were related before now. They look _nothing_ alike, they're as different as night and day. Daenerys reeks of Essos, and Jon, of the _North_. I don't see the problem."

 

"How can you not?" she pressed.

 

"Because Jon would make a great King," Arya stated, folding her arms.

 

Sansa's eyes fell shut as she walked over to her wardrobe. She began tidying items that didn't need tidying, as an obvious means to distract herself.

 

"You don't think so."

 

"It's not that I don't think so, It's just that," she paused as if searching for the right word. "Jon can be... _naive_."

 

"Naive or not, he convinced the Dragon Queen to fight for the North, and now there are _thousands_ of soldiers in and around the castle, all here to protect our home. And a mountain of dragonglass being forged into weapons. And for what, Sansa? What do you think Queen Daenerys gets out of this deal, exactly?"

 

"I don't know _what_ he's promised her, as he hasn't said. The North, I presume."

 

Arya laughed, though it came off more like a giggle, "What is the _North_ to Daenerys? She'll lose more men than she'll gain in this fight, and she's _already_ lost a dragon to the cause. Yet she's still here. She could've taken us easily by force, and yet she didn't. Is it so hard to believe she's a just ruler, as her many followers claim? Have you even spoken to any of them?"

 

"They don't speak the common tongue."

 

"Some of them do, perhaps not _well_. How many languages do _you_ know, again?"

 

Sansa only rolled her eyes.

 

"Or is it you're too busy with _Lord Tyrion_ to greet our many guests?"

 

"Excuse _you_ ," Sansa sneered. "Lord Tyrion is Hand to our _Queen_. If I'm to have _any_ influence as Lady of Winterfell..."

 

Arya couldn't help but burst into laughter at the absurdity of the insinuation, "You don't need _Tyrion Lannister_ to do that. Jon _always_ heeds your advice, and he didn't hesitate to leave you in charge when he left. Are you so quick to forget he's still _half Stark_ ? Winterfell is his home as much as it is mine or _yours_. He's still our _brother_ , he's part of our pack, and he always will be. Whether or not he becomes King to Daenerys."

 

" _King_ ," she scoffed. "Quite ambitious, isn't it? I don't see Daenerys forming a marriage alliance with a man who's already bent the knee and pledged his sword to her."

 

"Are politics _all_ you think about, _my lady_?"

 

"What else is there?"

 

"Love," Arya suggested, the word sounding foreign and unnatural on her tongue.

 

" _Love_ ," Sansa snorted mockingly, "For Daenerys, it would be an utter waste to marry for _love_ , would it not? I'm sure there are Lords out there who won't be so quick to bend the knee to her, then she'll be wishing she left that option open as a means to negotiate."

 

"A woman with _two dragons_ doesn't _need_ a man to negotiate. Imagine the statement it would make if the Queen married of her own volition. A woman forging her own path rather than being just another political pawn in someone else's game."

 

"You're sure pushing this _love_ issue a little hard, Arya," her sister teased. "You looking to forge a similar path? Say, with a certain bastard blacksmith?"

 

Arya's face flushed. "Don't call him that," she snapped, wishing she hadn't divulged the nature of her relationship with Gendry to her sister.

 

"Why not?"

 

"His name is Gendry. And _no_ , you know I'm not interested in becoming someone's _wife_."

 

"Why not? You love him, don't you?"

 

"Is that _any_ of your business?" Arya asked, folding her arms. "Besides, I'm sure there's no _political gain_ in a Stark girl marrying a bastard, at any rate," she added, in an attempt to mock Sansa's seemingly delusional priorities in the face of an even more deranged reality.

 

"A bastard, perhaps not. But a _Baratheon_..." her voice lingered as her lips parted to reveal a smug smile, slicing right through Arya's hardened composure.

 

"He's _not_ a Baratheon."

 

"He could be, were he legitimized," she nonchalantly added.

 

"Whether or not he is doesn't matter to me. I don't want to be a wife, or a _lady_ of some stupid castle."

 

Ignoring her last comment, Sansa paced around the room as if piecing something together, leaving a trail of wet bootprints behind in her wake. After a moment she continued, "That would be a wise move for the Queen, actually. To legitimize and wed Robert Baratheon's bastard son."

 

" _Sansa_ ..." Arya growled, unable to help clutching Needle's hilt at her right side, as if in warning. Her mind painted an image of Gendry standing beside Daenerys as she sat upon the iron throne. The mere thought made her positively _ill_.

 

"Even the most stubborn Lords would find it difficult to argue against a Targaryen and Baratheon pairing with a Lannister as Hand."

 

"And what of the _North_ in this hypothetical, bullshit scenario you've just built?"

 

"If the _honorable_ Jon Snow remains Warden of the North, she'd have nothing to worry about up here. Particularly not if he's her _kin_."

 

"You're still unsettled by it, aren't you?" Arya pressed, successfully dodging Sansa's attempts to rile her further.

 

"A little bit," she admitted. "Are you _not_?"

 

"It's always been true, Sansa. It's only that we just found out. It changes nothing."

 

"It _could_ change everything."

 

"But it won't."

 

"How can you be so sure?"

 

"Why do you think Jon is so angry right now?"

 

"He's angry because father put all of our lives at risk on his behalf."

 

" _Exactly_. Because he cares more about the wellbeing of his siblings than his own. Jon's ambitions have _never_ been selfish or fickle."

 

"You're right," Sansa sighed. "It's not Jon I distrust, it's... that I distrust _Targaryens_."

 

"Daenerys is _not_ her father," Arya reminded her, "Just as Tyrion is not his sister."

 

Sansa simply harrumphed in defeat, her expression, yielding. _Curious_ , Arya thought, not knowing Sansa to relent so easily during their many disagreements. Suddenly, Arya felt a great deal of curiosity regarding the _Imp_ , who had seemed to not only charm both Sansa and Jon, but the _Dragon Queen_ , herself, so much so that he had become her _Hand_. One thing the sisters should share in common with Daenerys is a hatred of Lannisters, and yet, Daenerys had invested a great deal of trust in Tyrion. Maybe there was more to this _Imp_ than Arya had first thought.

 

"You might do well to remind Jon of your allegiance to him, I'm sure he's feeling rather lost and alone," Sansa softly said.

 

Arya nearly stumbled upon hearing the strange suggestion, putting her hand to her chest almost in disbelief, "Did _you_ just say that, or did I?"

 

The redheaded girl chuckled, "I did."

 

"You might do the _same_ , Sansa."

 

" _Oh_ , I already have," she confirmed, a smile drawing itself across her face.

 

"Good," Arya said, offering her own grin in response.

 

After a few wordless moments passed between them, Arya sighed, "I should be getting back to Sam. I was only meant to take a short break."

 

"Sam? You mean Samwell _Tarly_?"

 

"I've been trying to help him, and by extension, _Bran_."

 

"Help with what, exactly?" Sansa asked, looking thoroughly intrigued.

 

"Helping to sift through every detail of the books they brought, searching for clues or answers before it's too late."

  
Sansa nodded, looking rather solemn as she remembered what had been marching for them all.

 

"If you or _the Imp_ bore of your politics, we wouldn't mind the additional help. If you feel so inclined."

 

"Lord Tyrion, _too_?" she asked, eyebrows raised high in disbelief.

 

"Why not? I hear he's clever."

 

"But you've such a distaste for him..."

 

"Eh," Arya shrugged. "It's nothing personal, really. I just have a general distaste for Lannisters."

 

"Can't say I blame you," Sansa smirked devilishly.

 

Arya simply nodded before gracefully turning on her heels and heading toward the door. As she unlocked it, she heard Sansa call after her, "Good luck, Arya."

 

"Thank you, _Lady Stark_ ," she said, flashing one last grin at her sister before departing.

 


	11. I'm No Lord, Just a Smith

After a tiring day spent almost entirely at the forge, Gendry found himself nearly limping into the hall, hoping to finally fill his yowling stomach with food for the first time since the prior night. As expected, more mystery stew had been served, and more stale bread for dipping. Perhaps not as flavorful as the exotic Essosi meals served at Dragonstone, but still several steps above anything served in Flea Bottom or at Eastwatch.

 

"I'm sure you could've found somethin' more useful to do 'round here than sweepin' chimneys, boy," an unmistakable, gruff voice resonated above him. Immediately, Gendry recognized it as Sandor's, unsure whether he wanted the Hound to take a seat or not, feeling a bit too tired to be antagonized tonight, and unsure whether his exhausted mind could keep up with the giant's quick wits.

 

" _Funny_ ," Gendry's tone was sarcastic as he rolled his eyes, not quite amused after wasting an entire day he couldn't afford to, having made nothing but useless steel alloys. "It's just dragonglass," he managed to mumble through cheeks stuffed full of stew-dipped bread.

 

Sandor harrumphed, easily pushing aside the men on the bench as he squeezed in across from Gendry. He paid no mind to the man on his right side, who had been diligently eyeing his scarred face.

 

" _Really?_ You're going to sit with _me_?" Gendry asked. Afterward, he glared at the man scrutinizing Sandor, hoping to discourage him.

 

"Where else?" the Hound asked, lifting his shoulders as he looked around.

 

Gendry followed his gaze, searching the hall, himself, only to realize he hadn't recognized any of the faces, either. The high table had seated no Starks, no Snow, no Lannister or Targaryen Queen. Ser Davos was nowhere to be seen, either, only a few of the Queen's loyal men had taken their usual seats at the high table. _Strange_ , he thought to himself.

 

After a moment, Gendry's eyes fell on the pale, armor-clad woman who he'd seen standing with Sandor previously. Only this time, she was staring back. Her gaze hung on him, unbroken and alarming, an expression akin to anguish. Gendry felt terribly uncomfortable all of a sudden. Holding eye contact with her, he couldn't help his face from contorting into a similar look of grief as a response. He was certain they'd never spoken before. One couldn't simply forget a woman so unique.

 

With a humorously large hand wrapped around his spoon, Sandor looked up after stuffing several bites into his mouth, finally noticing Gendry's troubled expression. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed the statuesque woman exchanging gazes with the boy.

 

"You know her?" he mumbled through a mouth full of food, seeming genuinely curious.

 

"I've never met her," Gendry admitted, trying to wrench his eyes away from her, and failing. "But I think I've upset her, somehow."

 

"Eh," Sandor shrugged, "She's always fretting."

 

" _You're_ one to talk," Gendry forced a smile, finally tearing his eyes away before focusing on the Hound.

 

"Oh, _everyone_ 'round here looks about as miserable as I am," he grumbled.

 

"Can you blame them?"

 

"Maybe not. I'm just not used to the company," he said, raising his eyebrows.

 

"Who is she, anyway?" Gendry asked in a whisper, as if she could hear him from across the noisy, overcrowded hall. He couldn't help his gaze occasionally flicking back to the giant woman as he inquired.

 

" _Brienne of Tarth_ ," Sandor sneered.

 

"Why are you saying it like _that_?"

 

"She tried to kill me."

 

Gendry's laugh hitched in his throat as Sandor's gaze shot up at him, cutting it short.

 

"But she didn't, _did she_ ? So what you _whingin_ ' about?" he snorted, attempting to stifle his laughter, the welcome imagery of this graceful lady knight tearing down the dreaded Hound.

 

"You're lucky the little lady likes you, _boy_."

 

Gendry couldn't help but smile as his mind flashed images of Arya, wondering where exactly she'd been, "Have you seen her, by the way?"

 

"Who?"

 

" _Arya_ ," he rolled his eyes. "Who else?"

 

"Not since this morning."

 

Exhaling in disappointment, Gendry raised his blackened hands to examine them. His nails were encrusted with obsidian, flecks of glass embedded just under the surface of his skin, each minor movement of his hand causing small twinges of pain. Nevertheless, he wiggled his fingers, letting the candlelight bounce from each tiny shard, like glimmering stars on a cloudless night. A night somewhere far to the south, such as the ones spent in a small rowboat, alone at sea, drifting somewhere between Dragonstone and King's Landing.

 

Inevitably, his mind wandered back to Arya, as it always had. No matter how much he missed the warmth of a southern climate, he somehow managed to end up in the one place he knew he belonged—alongside Arya, the only family he'd ever had. He wondered if her absence in the hall hinted that she'd been in her room, perhaps even waiting for him. There's no way he could go there covered in soot and smelling like smoke and sweat. He felt bad enough that he'd be shambling into her room, utterly exhausted after a long day full of hard work and little progress to show for it.

 

When he glanced back up, he nearly jumped when he saw the blonde woman towering over Sandor, clutching the golden hilt of what looked like a rather ornate Valyrian steel sword. _Curious_ , he thought, as he hadn't seen many, aside from Jon's and Arya's. It was then that Gendry got a better look at the impressive armor underneath her fur cloak.

 

"Pardon me, my lord," the woman softly said, in a surprisingly smooth voice, her blue eyes glistening with a deep emotion Gendry was surely unworthy of.

 

"Oh, I'm no lord," he replied, nearly flushing after being mistaken as such, particularly in his soiled state, wondering which way to appropriately address her. _Ser_ , perhaps? Though, he'd never met or heard of a female knight before. "Just a smith, m'lady," he ultimately chose.

 

The woman's expression changed to that of a slight smirk as she replied, "I'm no lady."

 

"You look like a knight," Gendry blurted, as his wide eyes swept over her imposing figure, clearly impressed. Perhaps it was Arya's influence, but he had developed something of an appreciation for strong women who could clearly handle themselves in battle.

 

Diverting her gaze from his briefly, perhaps made uncomfortable by his comment, she asked, "Do you mind if I take a seat?"

 

"Please," Gendry said, wiping the crumbs from his dirty hands before gesturing for her to sit.

 

The Hound grumbled, sure to give both Gendry and Brienne a pair of dirty looks as he scooted to make room for her. Despite doing everything he could to give the impression she had been inconveniencing him, Gendry could discern the hint of a grin on his face.

 

"I don't mean to interrupt, it's just that you look so familiar," she wistfully said, her eyes searching his for _something_ , though he wasn't quite sure _what_.

 

"I'm _certain_ we've never met before. I'd remember you," he exclaimed as if in awe.

 

"I'm Brienne of Tarth," she introduced herself, straightening her back, her head clearing all the men in her vicinity, even while seated. Even _Sandor's_.

 

" _Tarth_ ," Gendry tried the word on his tongue. "I've never heard of it."

 

"It's in the Stormlands," she explained.

 

"The _Stormlands_..." his voice trailed off for a moment as he remembered his father's ancestral seat, Storm's End. "How did you find your way to Winterfell, of all places?"

 

"Oh, that's _quite_ a long story, I'm afraid," she laughed. "The short version is that I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark to protect her daughters. Though she's gone now, I intend to honor my oath all the same. I've come to care for the girls as if they were my own kin."

 

"You're not the _only_ one," Sandor nodded to the boy sitting across from them.

 

Brienne cocked an eyebrow, "Is that so?"

 

"I don't know Sansa," he quickly explained, "But I grew up with Arya, in a way."

 

"Did you?" the woman asked, skeptically. "Your accent, it's not northern."

 

"No, I'm from King's Landing. Flea Bottom," he clarified. "I met Arya after Lord Stark was beheaded. We traveled first with the Night's Watch, and then the Brotherhood, for a time."

 

"King's Landing," she murmured quietly before asking, "What's your name?"

 

"Gendry."

 

" _Just_ Gendry?"

 

"Well, Gendry _Waters_ , I suppose. My father never recognized me as his, though. I don't think he knew I even existed. So yes, _just_ Gendry."

 

"Waters..." she paused, "Might I ask who is your father is?"

 

" _Was_ ," he corrected her. He let his typically chipper expression fall flat before providing the answer as gravely as he could without being _too_ off-putting, "Robert Baratheon. So I'm told."

 

Brienne lost several inches of height as she slumped, her sapphire irises suddenly shielded behind firmly clenched eyelids. She had the same pained look about her, now, that she'd given him earlier as they eyed each other from across the room. _She must've known him_ , Gendry thought, but no words came to his lips, for fear of upsetting her further.

 

"I once served on your uncle's Kingsguard," she offered after a moment, lifting her lids to reveal her glassy eyes.

 

" _Stannis?_ " he asked, his face twisting into a look of sheer of disgust, remembering the way he stood before the impassive man, appraised like swine. There had been no love at all between them, despite sharing blood.

 

" _Gods, no_ ," she scoffed, with an even clearer disgust than his own. "I served King Renly Baratheon."

 

"Renly?"

 

"It's Renly you remind me of, actually," her features softened as she examined his face once more.

 

"I would never 've guessed," he admitted, remembering the way the Hands of the King similarly scrutinized his looks, as well as Stannis, all coming to the immediate conclusion he was Robert's bastard. "What was he like?"

 

Brienne took a moment to consider her answer as a shy smile drew itself across her face. "Finest man I ever met," she nearly sang, a clear sense of pride behind the words.

 

"Was he?" Gendry couldn't help but smile, intrigued, as he hadn't met many people who knew his family members so well, aside from Davos.

 

"What Stannis did to him..." her smile faded as she began to seethe, ruefully slipping into some distant, dreaded memory that clearly enraged her.

 

Clearing his throat, he asked, "What happened?"

 

"I watched a _shadow_ with the face of Stannis Baratheon pierce Renly's heart."

 

"Magic?" he guessed, shifting uncomfortably.

 

She only nodded her head solemnly.

 

"I believe it. They almost got me, too," he admitted. "His _witch_ bought me from the Brotherhood. If Ser Davos hadn't freed me, they would've burned me alive."

 

"I'm glad he robbed them the opportunity."

 

"Me, too," he laughed nervously, recalling the mixture of relief and fear he felt upon escaping.

 

Suddenly, a man cleared his throat behind Gendry. Craning his neck to see who it was, he realized he hadn't recognized him, though he'd been about the same age.

 

"Ah, Pod. This is Gendry," she said. "Gendry, this is my squire, Podrick."

 

He extended his hand to shake Podrick's. Like Brienne, there was something trustworthy about him.

 

"Gendry is _Renly Baratheon's_ nephew," she slowly said. Podrick's eyes widened in recognition, though he said nothing in response.

 

After letting his eyes drift back to Brienne, Podrick announced, "My lady, Ser Jaime was hoping to speak with you."

 

Unlike the Starks, Brienne had no misgivings upon hearing the Lannister's name, in fact, her expression softened once more, just as it had for Renly. Gendry couldn't help but raise a curious eyebrow. She clearly knew Jaime Lannister as well.

 

"It was nice to meet you, Gendry," she said, rising gracefully from her seat.

 

"You too, m'lady," he said, borrowing the title Podrick had given her.

 

Brienne politely smiled in response, though wasted no breath in correcting him a second time. Gendry's eyes lingered on the pale woman as she pushed her way through the crowded space, only looking away after she disappeared. Already, he hoped for another chance to speak with her, to learn more about the uncle he'd never met and scarcely heard of, this mysterious figure worthy enough to be labeled the _finest_ man she'd ever met.

 

Ever since learning the truth about his Baratheon lineage, Gendry had embraced it, for better or worse. What he'd never know about his lowborn mother, he had been able to learn of his father. Perhaps Robert hadn't been the most competent King, but in fairness, most Kings hadn't been. So far as he knew, Robert overthrew a kingdom for the honor of the woman he loved. Ruling had eventually taken its toll on his father as the years pressed on—a job the man had no grooming for—but at his heart, he seemed like a brave, good man, nonetheless.

 

By pure happenstance, Gendry would likewise fall for a Stark girl. Unlike his father, he had no kingdom to overthrow for her honor, and he knew full well any man who tried to steal Arya away against her will would only live long enough to regret his terrible decision before she ended his chance to make any others. Knowing Robert and Eddard Stark fought alongside each other, he often wondered what his father would think if he could see his last and only surviving son now, up at Winterfell, fighting alongside the Starks.

 

"Thinkin' about the Stark girl, again, eh?" Sandor asked, shaking Gendry from wandering further into his thoughts.

 

Rather than agree, he simply glared.

 

"She said you were upset about Thoros."

 

"I wasn't upset about _Thoros_ , I was upset that she's so bent on revenge."

 

"Why's that? You could use the help."

 

" _Funny_ ," he sneered. "I'm not out for blood. There's enough things out there that are, be it men or _monsters_. I don't need to count myself among 'em."

 

"I've seen her cross a few names off that list of hers, you know. I've even helped her do it."

 

"Well, good for you, then. I want no part of it."

 

"Not even the Red Woman?"

 

" _The Red Woman_?" Gendry's face went pale. "How d'you know she's on Arya's list?"

 

"She'd recite her bloody list every night when I traveled with her. Had to hear each damned name before I fell asleep beside her."

 

Gendry felt a twitch of either jealousy or regret upon imagining Arya falling asleep beside Sandor.

 

" _You're_ why she's on her list," he continued, taking a guess. "But you're not dead. What's she need revenge for?"

 

"Why don't you ask _her_ about it?"

 

"Because it's fun makin' you sweat, boy," he playfully said, though _everything_ from the man's mouth managed to sound like a threat, whether or not he intended it to.

 

"Is it because you fucked her?" he asked after a moment.

 

" _Please_ tell me that didn't come up when you spoke to her."

 

"Not exactly. She just kept stickin' up for you and your _whinging_ ," his face distorted into a rather convincing grimace.

 

"Oh, come off it—you whinge _just_ as much as anyone," Gendry assured him. Aside from Jon, who he'd hardly seen since his trip to King's Landing, and Ser Davos, Sandor had been the closest thing Gendry had to a friend since departing from Dragonstone. The ship they traveled on together, to White Harbor, hadn't housed many others who spoke the common tongue, so they were forced to spend time together. Sandor, typically drunk, and Gendry, unfortunately sober.

 

"You never did tell the full story."

 

"And I don't plan to."

 

"Why not?"

 

"It's not a story worth tellin'," Gendry flatly stated, rising from his seat.

 

As he began pushing his way through the mass of men, he heard Sandor's unmistakable voice shouting after him, cutting through the crowd like a horn, "Let me be the judge of that!"

 

Gendry couldn't help but cringe, wishing he'd never been in earshot of Sandor the first time he _whinged_ about his experience under the duress of a witch. All he could do was hope Sandor had kept his loud mouth shut, and that he'd get to come clean with Arya tonight, on his own terms. At best, he'd end up in bed with her all the same, and at worst, he'd be sleeping in the kennels. He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

 

Another drunken throng awaited Gendry just outside the hall. _How is there enough wine and ale to support this each night?_ he wondered, half-disgusted by the bluster of the Dothraki horde trying to stir up their inflexible Unsullied counterparts. The extreme difference in demeanor between both formidable armies had, if nothing else, been quite a source of entertainment around Winterfell. The Dothraki, having grown up in a culture where they expressed their prowess, squaring off against the unfazed Unsullied, with nothing to prove other than devotion to their Queen. Though the influx of soldiers pouring in through the gates, the numbers rising each night, only served as a reminder that as the weather worsened, the closer death approached. Winterfell, and the town just outside its walls, like a little life-supporting oasis in an otherwise inhospitable wasteland.

 

Gendry managed to sneak into the keep, unseen, using an alternate route Arya had shown him. Rather than take his usual path to her room—one that luckily routed him _around_ the rooms of her siblings—he instead took a detour, hoping to find a washroom before making his way to her.

 


	12. You Betrayed Yourself

With her back turned to him, Arya sat upon her bed with crossed legs and folded arms. She seemed to be staring into the fireplace, unflinching, even as Gendry entered her room and locked the door behind him.

 

"Arya...?" he hesitantly asked.

 

No response. Rather, she kept staring into the flames, or perhaps beyond them. Her body language had been as quiet as her mouth, even her expression gave little away.

 

"I didn't mean to keep you waitin'," Gendry explained, awkwardly unlatching the straps of his cloak. "I thought I'd wash up first, rather than come in 'ere stinkin' up your room."

 

Rising to her feet, she smoothed the creases from her doublet, still fully dressed with her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Gendry couldn't help but shiver as she crossed the room, unable to tell whether it was from the draft left behind in her wake, or the coldness of the distance she'd placed between them.

 

"Why don't you sit down?" she asked, pacing the far end of her room.

 

Deciding to ignore the strange tension, he moved closer to Arya, "Can't I kiss you first?"

 

"No, you can't," she coolly said.

 

"Alright," he responded, reluctantly sinking into the depression she'd left behind on her bed.

 

"What you _can_ do," she announced, "is explain yourself."

 

"Are you pissed at me?"

 

An irritation had already seeped into her tone as she stuffed her hands into the crooks of her arms. Still, her expression seemed void of anything, like one of her eerie skin masks, but of her _own_ face, instead.

 

"I'm waiting," she said after allowing him a few moments to study her.

  
He folded his own arms in response. " _Explain_ myself? What is it you're lookin' for, exactly?" he asked. "I don't know what you heard but nothin' happened today other than me shattering botched steel."

 

"I'm not worried about your _steel,_ " she sneered, finally giving some indication of her true emotional state.

 

" _Shouldn't_ you be? I'm meant to help make whatever it is we need to bring down that dragon, am I not?"

 

She sighed in frustration, clearly not wanting to stray far from whatever it was she'd been getting at.

 

"I don't know what it is you want to know. If I had any clue, I'd 've already said it."

 

Finally, Arya turned to Gendry, staring daggers at him as she freely accused him, "You're a _Baratheon_."

 

"I'm a _bastard_ ," he swiftly corrected her. "My _father_ was a Baratheon. Me? I'm not an anything. How did you even find out...?"

 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

 

"Should I have lead with that? _Sure been a while, Arry—turns out I was a bastard after all_ _!_ " he exclaimed, mocking his own voice with an exaggerated version of his accent.

 

"Why not?"

 

"Maybe because you were too busy fucking with my head each day, comin' to me as a dead girl. You didn't lead with your House of Black and White. I _still_ don't know what _that_ is."

 

"Don't turn this around on me," she scoffed, shooing away his point with a simple wave of her hand.

 

"Turn _what_ around? It's not like I lied to you, it just _hadn't_ come up yet. I've been with you, what, _two days_? We've been apart for _years_."

 

"I don't like being the last to know."

 

"You aren't the last to know, or at least I _hope_ you're not. Who told you, anyway?"

 

"Jon."

 

Gendry laughed, shaking his head, "Well, Davos did warn me not to tell him, said I should go by _Clovis_. I didn't see any point in keepin' it from him, though."

 

"But you saw a point in keeping it from _me_?"

 

Still laughing, more-so out of frustration than anything, Gendry brought his hand up to massage his forehead. After a moment of consideration, he declared, "You can't be this pissed at me over who my father is. It just doesn't make sense. You know full well I'd have told you eventually. I only see you a few hours a day. Most of the time I spend with you, we're _asleep_."

 

He rose to his feet, shuffling over to her as he placed a reluctant hand on her waist. "Or otherwise preoccupied," he continued.

 

After hesitating a moment, Arya shrugged him off. Indeed, she had looked upset just beyond the cool mask she'd worn, refusing to fully submit to her emotions in front of him. Gendry suddenly got the impression that she had been using his bastardy as a crutch upon which to support her anger, an excuse rather than the cause.

 

"Why don't you tell me why you're _actually_ angry with me?" he pleaded, his voice a bit too soft, perhaps even tinged with guilt, for he'd already had a pretty good guess.

 

"The one woman you slept with. It was _Melisandre_."

 

"Who told you _that_? Sandor?" he guessed, unsure how to feel about already being the victim of gossip around Winterfell.

 

"Turns out a lot of people know the _Red Bitch_ around here."

 

Rather than respond, Gendry's expression broke into one of disgust, unable to stop the unwelcome memories from creeping into his mind's eye. He could even feel phantom leeches wriggling on his chest, and phantom stings on his groin where the witch had wrenched them from his skin.

 

"So you're going to deny it? I can tell when people are lying, you know."

 

"I didn't deny it," he said, sighing in defeat.

 

Gendry paced her room a bit before leaning against the wall near her door. After sorting out his thoughts, he continued, "Yes, _technically_ , I had sex with her. For less than a minute. And she only did it to get my cock upright so she could leech my blood from it."

 

Arya rolled her eyes in sheer disgust, "You're _stupid_. You know that?"

 

"Yes, I _do_ know that. You saw her for what she was, straight away. The rest of us aren't so keen as you, especially not if we're just stupid men in front of naked women."

 

"She's not a woman, she's a _witch_ ," Arya seethed as she corrected him.

 

"Well, she sure _looks_ like a woman," he said, smirking, mostly at Arya's blatant jealousy. "I thought you knew enough about the world to know men don't stop a woman who's reachin' for their _cock_. Isn't that what you said to me?"

 

"You're supposed to be _different_ than the rest of them."

 

"I'm tryin' to be, at least. But you're actin' like I betrayed you."

 

"You betrayed _yourself_."

 

"And why should that upset you, then? I'm still here, aren't I?" he asked.

 

Arya turned away from him, refusing to dignify his question with a response.

 

"I had never been with a woman, Arya," he admitted. "Hardly ever spoke to one. Yeah, I wanted to know what it was like. So do a lot of people. Like _you_."

 

"Not anymore," she said flatly.

 

He exhaled the stale breath from his lungs. "I knew there was a chance you would change your mind and that's why I couldn't go through with it last night when you asked me to. I'm sure some part of you still understands—you wanted to try it before the world ends, maybe I wanted to do the same."

 

"The world _wasn't_ ending for you."

 

"I thought it might. Shortly after it started," he couldn't help but snicker upon reliving the hopeless feeling he'd had sitting in the cells at Dragonstone, just waiting to be burned alive.

 

As Arya scoffed again in response, he realized some part of his explanation had managed to crack that icy exterior of hers.

 

"If whatever poor judgment I had as a boy fucked up whatever chance I have with you now, I accept that," he lamented, "But until then, and _especially_ if we make it through all of this, I'd like to take you up on your other offer."

 

" _What_ other offer?"

 

"You said you'd be my family," he reminded her in as sweet a tone as he could manage.

 

"Maybe I had poor judgment as a _girl_."

 

"You didn't then, and you still don't."

 

After another awkward moment of silence, Arya slumped back into her bed. Gendry remained against her wall, mere inches from the exit, his vicinity reminding him that he might not be welcome.

 

"Arya?"

 

" _What?_ " she snapped.

 

"Would you like me to leave?"

 

"I gave you a key, and you're welcome to stay," she sighed. " _But_ you can sleep on the floor from now on."

 

Gendry moved toward the fireplace. After warming his hands, he knelt beside its surround, surveying the floor and how he might go about sleeping there. By now, he was exhausted, and whatever chill he might feel pressed against Arya's floor would surely beat the biting cold felt in nearly every other corner of the castle.

 

"Get up, you idiot," she softly said from behind him.

 

The small glimmer of hope granted upon hearing her voice had been stripped away just as suddenly as he turned to see Arya pulling several furs out from underneath her bed. He remembered back to his first night at Winterfell, the barren stone tiles beneath the bed, save for a mask and a robe. Suddenly, it dawned on him that she'd prepared for this outcome before he'd even arrived for the night. Rather than dwell on it, he simply felt thankful she hadn't kicked him out, entirely.

 

As much as he'd love to try to work out her anger with him, he knew it would have to wait. She was too incensed, and he, too exhausted. After moving the small table near the fireplace, he dragged one of the furs to lie on, folded one to use as a cushion, and used the last as a covering. Soothed by the warmth and the snapping logs in the fireplace, sleep claimed him in only a matter of minutes.

 

.  .  .

 

A shooting pain had woken Gendry some hours later. The mass of fur beneath his head had done little to protect his neck from the rigid stone just inches beneath it. Every muscle stiff, every bone aching.

 

Sleep had done nothing more than thaw him, perhaps even too well. Since he hadn't bothered disrobing, he felt an uncomfortable coat of sweat beneath the leather. After trying to free himself from the stifling furs, he felt something weighing on his arm, and a puff of cool air on the back of his neck. A light snoring soon followed the sensation as Arya stirred behind him. Gendry stopped moving, still trying to make sense of it. At some point during the night, she had crawled into his makeshift bed, going so far as to wrap herself around him.

 

As a smile crept over his face, he tried to remind himself that it could be nothing more than the chill in the air that brought her over to him—for as soon as he faced away from the fireplace, he could see his warm breath turn to mist as he exhaled.

 

Carefully craning his neck, the open shutters revealed a pitch-darkness outside, offering no hint of what time it might be. The dull pain he felt from head to toe, as well as the clamminess under his clothes, had been enough to will him awake and up off of the floor. Arya must've been exhausted, too. His shuffling hadn't even threatened to wake her, rather, she'd collapsed into little more than a pile of flaccid limbs.

 

Knowing he couldn't just leave her on the floor alone to run the same gamut of bodily distress he'd woken up to, he gathered her up into his arms as gently as he could manage. As he moved to her bedside, she began to stir again as he cradled her. After managing to pull back the furs upon her bed with his free hand, he carefully set her down, handling her as delicately as glass. He unfolded her lifeless, leather-clad body as he tucked her in.

 

"Gendry," she cooed, gazing up at him through small grey slits.

 

" _Shh_ , go back to sleep," he whispered, unable to help returning the sleepy smile she'd offered him. Her arms loosely clung to his neck, wobbling like gelatin as he gently unlatched her fingers and guided each to her sides.

 

"At least help me undress," she said in a hazy, yet enticing manner as her eyes fluttered closed.

 

"No, no," he softly chuckled, " _Awake_ Arya would have my head."

 

"I _am_ awake," she insisted, her eyes still closed shut.

 

"Hardly," he sighed, noticing how much effort she'd gone through just to muster three small words. "You're half-asleep and you're saying things you don't mean."

 

"I'm awake," she insisted, a tired rasp lending her voice a sensual quality, which certainly hadn't helped his resolve.

 

When Gendry's eyes drifted back to her face, he'd been surprised to see a pair of wide grey eyes peering back at him. A small, pale hand began tugging at the laces of her doublet. "Help me," she pleaded again.

 

Still unsure whether or not she had been in the right state of mind to even make such a request, all he could do was simply stare down at her. That is, until he felt her hands on his, guiding them back to her laces, urging him to finish the job she'd started.

 

He rubbed the strings between his fingers as he stalled, " _Arya_..."

 

"Undress me," she sleepily commanded him.

 

Unable to deny her any longer, Gendry knelt beside her, swiftly loosening her clothing. He guided Arya up enough to pull off her doublet, casting it to the floor beside the bed as carefully as he could manage.

 

"The rest, too," she whispered, eyes locked on his.

 

Gendry gulped as he clutched the bottom of her tunic, closing his eyes as he helped to pull it over her head. Blindly, he reached for the furs to pull them over her naked torso. Once he'd located them, her hand had found its way to his wrist to stop him.

 

"I'm too hot," she whined, kicking her coverings away.

 

Upon opening his eyes again, he tried his best to divert his gaze, still unsure of her intent, thinking it best to assume she was simply too exhausted to undress, herself. Inevitably, his eyes still fell upon her skin, specifically, to a pair of marks on her belly. Not far from her navel, the patches of scar tissue were pinched, showing signs of having been held together with stitches.

 

"How'd you get these, anyway?" he asked, fighting the urge to bring his lips to each. Something stirred inside of him upon seeing her scars, a feeling he was rather unfamiliar with— _wrath_. His mind conjured images of the caved-in skull of the faceless perpetrator after getting acquainted with the thick end of his warhammer.

 

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know?" she groggily teased, bringing her arms up to her chest as she rolled to her side, thankfully covering her breasts in the process.

 

In her sleepy state, she didn't seem like the same fierce murderess bent on vengeance. As a result, he felt the nagging urge to protect her, even though he felt certain whoever had given her those scars had since been _dispatched_.

 

Several minutes passed as Gendry watched Arya's face slacken as she fell asleep. He shook his head, wondering whether or not she'd remember any of it when she woke a second time, unsure what to expect when he saw her next. Sighing, he rose and kissed her gently on the forehead.

 

"Sleep well, m'lady," he whispered, pulling the furs up and over her goosepimpled skin.

 

.  .  .

 

As he made his way back to the forge, Gendry had been surprised by the commotion outside. Indeed, the sun had yet to rise, and his best guess was that it would still be a few hours before it was due over the horizon. Near the hall, he passed a group of Dothraki men, angrily raising their voices amongst each other, in a clear state of distress. Perhaps the ones he'd passed the night before simply never retired after supper.

 

"Gendry," Ser Davos said, his figure well-hidden in a shaded corner of the forge area.

 

"Do you ever sleep?" he asked the old man. Even in the dim orange light, he could see the dark rings under Davos' eyes, suddenly regretting his poor choice in asking.

 

"There's no time for that," he replied. "I was hoping I'd see you early this mornin'."

 

"Is it morning? I honestly couldn't tell," Gendry groaned, before bringing his hands to his mouth to warm them with his breath.

 

" _Gendry_ ," Davos nearly growled upon seeing the sorry state of the bandage around the wound on Gendry's left hand. Shaking his head, he reprimanded the boy, "You should really have the Maester clean that up for you and get you fresh bandages."

 

Shrugging, he inspected the stained fabric, himself, "What does it matter?"

 

"It might just matter," the older man gruffly reminded him, "Assuming you don't want to die of infection upon surviving the great war."

 

Gendry couldn't help but laugh, always appreciating the way Davos could make light of virtually any situation.

 

"I've got some news. Good and bad," Davos said, slipping into a serious tone. "Which would you prefer?"

 

"I'd prefer there _not_ to be bad news."

 

He sighed, "Then we'll start with the good. The Lannisters have finished the schematic of their ballista."

 

"Ballista?" Gendry asked as Davos thrust a scroll of parchment toward him.

 

As he unrolled it, he was surprised to see the extreme detail put into the carefully hand-drawn diagrams. There were even specific measurements to follow regarding the bolts whose heads he'd be in charge of fashioning. He nodded, "Looks pretty straightforward."

 

"Good. Just what I'd hoped to hear."

 

"Still no luck with the steel and dragonglass, though," he admitted.

 

"No?"

 

"Use too little, it crumbles. Use too much? It shatters."

 

"That is unfortunate," Davos said, bringing a hand up to stroke his beard. "For now, leave that be. Get to work on the bolt heads. Use pure dragonglass for now."

 

"I'll see what I can do," he said, still feeling rather out of his depth to be tasked with shaping _glass_ rather than steel.

 

Davos gave a quick nod before folding his arms behind his back and turning to walk away.

 

"Ser Davos," Gendry called. "What's the _bad_ news?"

 

"Right," Davos said. "I'm sure you saw the Dothraki men shoutin' amongst themselves on your way here?"

 

"They're hard to miss," he agreed, still hearing the bellowing in the distance, having no clue what they might be saying.

 

"Turns out several horses stabled just outside the castle disappeared last night."

 

"Disappeared?"

 

"Their tracks had been mostly filled in with fresh snow, but seemed to lead north."

 

"The horses escaped and went _north_ ? Why? It's a wasteland up there—hells, it's a wasteland _here_."

 

"Where they were tied up, there were... _traces_ of 'em left behind. Skin and blood. It's like they keeled over after the cold became too much for 'em, only to peel themselves from the snow and ice to head north."

 

"That sounds... _disgusting_ ," Gendry commented, unable to help wincing as he imagined the sight.

 

"Disgusting, sure. Also _troubling_ , if the dead are risin' this far south," his voice trailed off. "Just... keep an eye out, Gendry."

 

"I will," he assured Davos.

 

"And go see the Maester about your hand."

 

" _I will_ ," he said with a slight sneer, like a child trying to placate a parent.

 

Davos moved closer to him, an eyebrow raised high in disbelief. "I don't trust you to go on your own, so I'll take you there, _myself_ ," he insisted, grabbing the boy's sleeve from underneath his cloak and leading him toward Maester Wolkan's turret. Gendry feigned all the typical signs of protest, but in truth, he was happy to have someone like Davos looking out for him.

 


	13. Dragon Bonding

Checking in on Gendry had become part of Arya's morning routine. Although she made it clear she wasn't happy with him mere hours ago, she couldn't help herself. After waking, she made her usual trek through the snow to the smithy. She climbed up to the ramparts nearby and sat with her legs hanging over the stone, and her arms over the railing, just watching him work.

 

It didn't take Gendry long before he spotted her, either. He'd wipe the sweat from the back of his neck, his clean, bandaged hand lingering there as if brushing something away. After a time or two, he finally met Arya's gaze—she donned her _own_ face for a change as she peered down at him. Once he recognized her through a squint, he waved awkwardly with his left hand, flashing that infuriatingly sweet smile in her direction.

 

Arya only sighed. She kept her face clean of any emotion that might give her away. Since the day prior, when she'd pieced together what happened between him and the _Red Witch_ , she felt disgust and pity in equal measure. Arguing with him came naturally, but the moment that playful facade fell, she felt helpless all over again, like stepping into unmapped territory. The ground shook whenever his eyes bored into her, exposing once deeply buried truths she would've rather stayed covered.

 

Prying her eyes away from him, she noticed a small cloaked figure in the distance, rushing into the godswood. The sight made her hair stand on end. Arya all but leapt to her feet and began sprinting across the ramparts in their direction. Several of the patrolling guards moved out of her way as she approached, and a few others griped and cursed as she passed, nearly knocking them over. Paying them no mind, she continued on, pounding her feet into the ice and snow until she reached the edge of the godswood.

 

She climbed down from the battlements and onto a tall, twisted, leafless oak tree whose branches nearly touched the stone. After dropping onto the soft ground, she lithely maneuvered through the trees until she'd almost reached the path. Closing her eyes to better listen, she could make out light footfalls, muffled by the snow and thick brush. Carefully, Arya stepped out just behind the shrouded figure.

 

"Who's there?" a woman's voice demanded as she turned her head to identify the sound.

 

That's when Arya spotted silver-gold strands peeking from her hood, " _Your Grace_..?"

 

As Daenerys turned, she let the hood fall loosely around her shoulders. "Arya Stark," she said in a much softer tone as relief washed over her.

 

"Are you wearing a _disguise?_ "

 

A puff of mist clouded the queen's face as she laughed, "I suppose you could call it that."

 

"I spotted you in the courtyard, Your Grace. I thought you might be a spy, so I followed you."

 

Daenerys studied Arya for a moment, letting the snow shrikes sing as they flew overhead, a high-pitched trill that adequately filled the silence between them. Snow slid from the needles of a nearby soldier pine, hitting the ground with a splash. The wooded enclosure of the godswood, with its hot springs, always ran warmer than the rest of the castle. Still, the queen's cheeks were stricken pink from the chill of the wind.

 

"I feel out of sorts here," Daenerys confessed. "I'm not very popular with the northern lords, I'm afraid. And to have my father's _murderer_ walking freely amongst the castle..."

 

"And yet _you_ walk freely into the godswood without protection," Arya noted, with an almost maternal tone.

 

The queen playfully scoffed, "It can get tiring _never_ being alone, not even for a moment."

 

"Not even with my brother?"

 

Daenerys only smirked, giving little else away. _Damn_ , Arya thought, hoping to glean a little more into the nature of their relationship. As the days wore on, they tried their best to keep it decorous, though Arya hoped whatever Jon felt for the queen had been requited.

 

When it was clear that Daenerys wouldn't provide an actual answer to the intrusive question, Arya pulled at a different thread of the conversation, taking a step closer to the queen, "Your father's murderer..."

 

"What about him?"

 

"Well, I've vowed to serve you," she said, squaring her shoulders as she folded her arms behind her back. "Once the Lannister has exhausted his usefulness, it would be my utmost pleasure to... dispose of him, Your Grace. If you wish."

 

She laughed again, though not in a mocking manner, like the many others who've heard Arya voice her threats. "You're quite a scary young lady, aren't you?"

 

Arya simply shrugged. Jaime Lannister hadn't exactly been on her _list_ , though he had been on thin ice. By now, what he'd done to Bran had been common knowledge amongst the Starks. Her younger brother might've forgiven him in his emotionless, vegetative state, but Arya wasn't so sure he could be trusted. After all, she'd never been a fan of anyone who hurt children.

 

"I appreciate the offer, but for now we might as well milk him for all his use," she grinned, turning to Arya as she clasped her hands together gracefully before her. "Would you like to meet Drogon, my lady?"

 

Arya couldn't help but beam at the offer, " _Of course_ I want to meet him!"

 

As they walked toward the larger and darker of the two dragons, Arya decided to make small talk. She had been a bit more cultured than the other northern folk, and might as well make it known that she wasn't quite so... _judgmental_.

 

"I admire the work you did in Essos."

 

"You _do?_ " the queen asked, almost in disbelief, though the compliment hadn't failed to coax another smile out of her.

 

"I lived in Braavos for a time," Arya explained. "The things I saw there, in the free city—they'll always haunt me. Laughable they should call it a _free city_ , when little girls are bought and sold there like animals."

 

Solemnly, Daenerys nodded along. "You know, I grew up in Braavos."

 

" _You did?_ "

 

"It was the happiest time in my life," Daenerys smiled once more, though this time _genuine_ rather than polite. It was then Arya noticed how breathtaking the queen truly was. Upon arriving to Winterfell, she had been stone-faced, trying to hide her devastation upon hearing of her dragon Viserion's fate. This had been the first time Arya saw her _truly_ smile.

 

Arya, instead, scrunched her face, remembering the terrible stench throughout the streets of Braavos. How the unwelcome aroma of fish and human waste wafted, impossible to separate from the smell of freshly baked from the market. Winterfell may not smell the _best_ , but it was undoubtedly better than Braavos or King's Landing.

 

"Tell me about it," Arya then insisted, feeling oddly nostalgic about the first time she spotted the Titan of Braavos from the ship.

 

"My father's master-at-arms rescued my brother and me, and we fled to Braavos. He had a huge house with a red door. It was the only place I've lived that felt like my home. I had a room all my own, with a lemon tree right outside my window."

 

" _A lemon tree?_ " Arya wrinkled her nose in disbelief. "Trees were a rare sight in the free city."

 

"Indeed," she agreed. "As a girl, I'd have been utterly enchanted by the godswood, no doubt."

 

Finally, they'd approached the large black-and-reddish beast she called her son. The fearsome dragon began almost chirping upon seeing his mother. To Arya, it looked like he'd been made of stone—from his scales to his teeth, even his eyes looked like polished rubies. Like a gargoyle brought to life.

 

" _Magnificent_ ," she whispered, stunned by the sight. She'd been impressed enough seeing them flying above the castle, but to see one up close had been another matter, entirely.

 

"You're not scared of him?"

 

"He's... _beautiful_ ," she exclaimed, her eyes widening just as the dragon's had, the pair examining each other from a distance.

 

Somehow the sentiment had coaxed a chuckle from the queen, to which Arya raised a curious eyebrow.

 

"Sorry, it's just... something your brother once said. Or... _didn't_ say."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Well," she started, bridging the distance between herself and her son, scratching at his scales as if he were a dog. "After Jon met Drogon, I asked him if he thought my dragons were beautiful."

 

"And I'm guessing by your laugh, that he fumbled over what should've been a simple question?"

 

"Well, he said _beautiful_ wasn't the word he'd been thinking of. I was so touched by Drogon's interest in Jon that when he didn't jump at the chance to agree, I sort of shot him a look of _offense_ ," she giggled.

 

"You two are funny," Arya smirked, trying to picture the awkward scene.

 

"Are we?" Daenerys shook her head, amused.

 

"I've heard stories."

 

"Oh, no. I guess I've grown used to a lack of gossip on an island full of people speaking one of three tongues," she grinned as she gestured Arya over, inviting her to give Drogon a pat. "Might I ask what stories you've heard?"

 

"Not many, _unfortunately_ ," Arya replied honestly. She hesitated to reach out to touch Drogon, though she could feel his rubied gaze penetrating her as she spoke with his mother. "Just that Jon likewise fumbled over a goodbye with you before heading off to Eastwatch."

 

Daenerys nodded, offering a small smirk as she stared off into the distance once more. "He isn't the best at being vulnerable," she concluded.

 

"Oh, but _he is_ ," Arya insisted, "Just maybe not the best at putting _words_ to it."

 

The queen's pink-bespeckled cheeks filled out with a deep flush as she considered the girl's assessment of her brother.

 

Finally feeling comfortable enough after a thorough inspection on Drogon's behalf, Arya stepped closer to his scaly neck. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch him, half-surprised that his scales felt as hard as they looked, like stone. He was hot to the touch, even warming the air around himself. She wondered if the dragons could even feel the cold. Though, perhaps it did bother them to some extent, which is why they chose to nest in the godswood, the warmest place inside Winterfell's walls. _Not that they'd fit anywhere else_ , she reminded herself.

 

"They'll be bringing the horses in, soon."

 

"Horses?"

 

"Several of my blood riders' horses succumbed to the cold last night," she explained.

 

"I'm sorry to hear that, Your Grace."

 

"The part you should be sorry to hear is that the horses peeled themselves from the ice and went north. Likely at the Night King's behest."

 

"How do you know they were... _dead?_ "

 

"I suppose we can't know for sure, but the horses were loyal to my men, like the dragons are to me. And, _well_ ," she paused to gulp, "A couple seem to have left a leg behind."

 

A deep shudder rippled through Arya upon the visual of three-legged dead horses marching through a snowstorm. She didn't need to give a verbal response, her perturbed expression had said it all.

 

"So, they'll be moved to the godswood, _with_ my dragons, unfortunately. The dragons may not appreciate the added company, but hopefully they'll keep warm enough," she said in a small voice, almost like a child's.

 

Arya was starting to become just as worried about the war as Gendry had been. Even the dragon queen couldn't hide the doubt in her voice, and she'd made the _impossible_ happen—waking three beasts from stone and using them to abolish slavery across Essos as she made her way back home. And now the dead were rising as far south as Winterfell and marching off to join their army. Horses today, who knows _what_ tomorrow.

 

The unwelcome thought of Gendry had left a sour taste in her mouth, like wine gone bad. Arya's face twisted in further disgust as her mind painted graphic images of his hands and feet tied to bedposts. She cursed her head for dwelling on the wretched detail, one she didn't wish to hold against him but couldn't help doing.

 

"My apologies, my lady. I didn't mean to disturb you with such... _detail_."

 

"No, it's... not _that_ , Your Grace."

 

"Then what is it?"

 

"Might I ask how well you know the Red Woman? _Melisandre?_ "

 

" _Oh_ ," she said, taken aback by the sudden change of topic. "I met her just once in my throne room at Dragonstone."

 

"Is she an ally?"

 

"I suppose so, in that the red priests and priestesses of R'hllor are, in fact, my allies. They help keep order around Essos while I'm away."

 

"They're _evil_ , Your Grace, and you should be wary of them," Arya growled. "My brother's closest advisor informed me of the contemptible things she did to her King's only heir, Shireen Baratheon."

 

"Ser Davos told you this?"

 

Arya nodded, "He said the witch burned the girl alive. She almost burned Gendry alive, too, just because he's Robert Baratheon's bastard son."

 

The queen's gaze fell, searching for a place to land.

 

"I know he's of blood relation to... _the Usurper_ ," Arya explained, remembering back to Daenerys' reaction upon hearing of his bastardy. "But he isn't his father, nor is he his uncle. Ser Davos did the right thing in helping him to escape."

 

"That's not it," she firmly stated. "And, I agree with you. Any faith who would burn innocent children alive is despicable."

 

"If it's not _that_ , then what is it?"

 

"It's that Melisandre came to me, to bring me and Jon together for a purpose. I wonder what her true motivations were, and whether I was wise to follow through with her request."

 

"Perhaps not, Your Grace. You might still have three dragons."

 

As Daenerys turned to Arya, her violet eyes burned with both intensity and passion. Arya didn't flinch, she stood rigid, hoping her honest words hadn't offended her queen, but hadn't regretted them one bit. Much like her brother, she had little interest in being deceptive.

 

"You know I don't blame your brother for that. If I had been a little more observant..." her voice trailed off, much like her gaze, which had settled somewhere far beyond the walls of the godswood.

 

" _Observant?_ "

 

"The King in the North coming to Dragonstone to meet a _Targaryen_ queen?" she scoffed. "I should've known that only desperation would drive a King with Stark blood into my throne room. And still, I didn't listen to him. I thought it all absurd. I needed proof. _Cersei_ needed proof. And in the end, _none_ of it mattered."

 

Daenerys shook her head, gritting her teeth as she continued, "And you're right, I lost Viserion. My dragon, _my son_. And now he's a slave to the greatest enemy Westeros has ever known, something we all assumed had been no more than a legend." Daenerys shifted uncomfortably before returning her gaze to the girl, "What do you know of R'hllor, Arya?"

 

"Not much, I'm afraid," she admitted. "Ser Davos might know more though, he spent years alongside Stannis and the _Red Witch_ as she whispered sweet nothings into her King's ear, planting her evil seeds all throughout his mind." Arya paused, trying to find the right amount of concern before she spoke again, "I fear her return, that she might try to do the same to you, or to Jon."

 

"He's smarter than that," Daenerys quickly stated, with an impressive, steadfast confidence. "As for myself, I promise you there's no world where I'd agree to burn children, no matter whose blood ran through their veins or what their life might _buy_."

 

Daenerys ran a gloved hand over her belly in that moment, and when she looked back up, her violet eyes swam in unshed tears. Something about her conviction had Arya convinced, as well. Every word they'd exchanged thus far had been the honest, utmost truth, of that Arya had been sure. Daenerys had turned out to be every bit as forthright as Jon, and after speaking with her on a more personal level, she understood exactly what her brother saw in the young queen.

 

"You already understand Jon better than most of the lords here who claim loyalty to him. Yet, once we received word he bent the knee, I had the _pleasure_ of hearing their incessant grumbling about the _northern fool_. It took a great deal of convincing on Sansa's part for me _not_ to separate their worthless heads from their necks, but she is Lady of Winterfell, after all," the words poured from her without so much as a filter. Something about Queen Daenerys made her feel frightfully at ease.

 

"He's no fool," Daenerys quickly agreed before chuckling, "Though, when he first came before me, he had the audacity to call us squabbling children. He threw his hands up in frustration about all the silly games we're all playing. In fairness, he did include himself."

 

"And after pulling such a stunt, he got to walk away from you? And from Drogon, here?" Arya laughed as she nodded toward the unearthly beast.

 

"Nerves of steel, that man," she wistfully said, smiling with her mouth as well as her eyes. "He once told me he didn't enjoy what he was good at. Did he mean ruling? Fighting? Maybe both, it's hard to say as he's a man of few words," she admitted. "Though, after seeing what he'd come to warn me about, I wonder if what looks like short-sightedness to the many, is actually Jon seeing a picture so large, the rest of us are incapable of grasping it, seeing only fragments. Your brother understands some larger truth, even without all the pieces at his disposal."

 

A wide grin spread itself over Arya's face. _Finally_ , someone else understood Jon, rather than dismissing him as a _fool_ for actions they didn't understand. While each of the queen's words could be taken as cordial, Arya sensed a little more under the surface than admiration alone.

 

"Do I truly have your support, northern girl?" the queen asked after a moment.

 

"So long as you don't break my brother's heart," she replied honestly.

 

Daenerys snorted in surprise at Arya's candor.

 

"And what of _my_ broken heart?" she mumbled, peering off into the distance as if hypnotized.

 

"What do you mean?" Arya probed, feeling suddenly proctective—of _Daenerys_ , rather than Jon.

 

She shook the strange feeling away as Drogon began excitedly cooing once more. Arya's eyes followed the queen's gaze, only to see Jon fast approaching, his dark cloak dancing in the wind behind him. From a distance, he could've passed for Ned Stark. The revelation gave Arya a pang of sadness paired with a chill—even standing beside Drogon, which had felt no different than standing next to a forge.

 

"Been lookin' for you all over," Jon raised his voice, almost shouting to the girls as he drew nearer.

 

Daenerys and Arya exchanged a confused look before the queen inquired, "Which one of us?"

 

" _You_ , Your Grace," he breathed. "Your absence had your men worried."

 

" _Just_ my men?"

 

"What?" Jon asked with a huff, though even Arya understood her implication.

 

The queen's sigh was met only with a stubborn frown from Jon, "I knew you'd be here with them. Though I'm surprised to see _my sister_ here with you."

 

"Well," Arya cut in, "Like the queen's _men_ , I was worried when I saw her walking alone, so I followed her."

 

Jon smiled upon hearing the explanation, giving them both a look-over as he continued, "I see. And I see Drogon seems to like you."

 

"Not as much as he likes _you_ ," Arya teased, as Drogon chuffed happily beside them, steam rising from his nostrils with each exhale. She watched with fascination as the dragon slowly blinked at Jon, almost as if urging her brother to pet him.

 

Indeed, Jon peeled the glove from his hand before moving in and placing it to Drogon's scales, scratching at him the same way he did to Ghost. The dragon closed his eyes and leaned into it, cooing all the while. Arya wondered how such a large beast could enjoy something so small as a human hand brushing against him, assuming it would be little more than a nuisance.

 

Arya stole a quick glance of the queen as Jon tended to Drogon. Daenerys stared at him longingly, in a way that made Arya uncomfortable merely being in their midst.

 

"I should go," she blurted. "Sam and Gilly are likely expecting me."

 

" _Sam?_ " Jon asked, turning to Arya, perplexed.

 

"I'm lending him my eyes," she explained, not wishing to divulge the _full_ truth that had sent her to Sam's door in the first place. "He needs all the help he can get poring through those old books from the Citadel."

 

Pursing his lips together, Jon nodded gravely as his gaze shifted back to Daenerys. The strange look seemed like a hint, Arya's cue to leave.

 

"Your Grace," she bowed before quickly scampering away.

 

Just at the edge of earshot, she slipped behind a thick ironwood tree, hoping to glean a few more details, since both Jon and Daenerys had been all too secretive. She clenched her eyes closed and listened in as best she could.

 

"Why do you look so upset all of a sudden?" Daenerys asked.

 

Arya strained harder to listen, though she heard no reply from Jon.

 

"Is it because I was speaking with your sister?"

 

"Of _course_ not," Jon finally said, "I was thrilled to see her here with you. I knew you'd like her. And she, you."

 

"She's so much like you, though _much_ more talkative."

 

Jon didn't respond.

 

"You still look upset."

 

Heaving a sigh, he finally clarified, "It's Sam."

 

"Sam? Your sister's friend?"

 

"No. _My_ friend. Samwell _Tarly_."

 

After several moments of silence, Arya very carefully peered from behind the trunk, wondering what Sam had to do with Jon's peculiar mood. Jon and Daenerys both appeared rather glum, their eyes cast upon the ground, neither saying a word.

 

"Shall I speak with him?"

 

Jon huffed at her question. "It might be better if he hears it from me," he said.

 

"I didn't know," she stated, rather defensively.

 

"Would it have changed anything? _Had_ you known?"

 

"I can't say."

 

Another few painful moments of silence passed between the pair.

 

"Are you angry with me?"

 

"I can't be angry with your ignorance," Jon sighed, still stroking Drogon, whose eyes were closed as if lulled to sleep by his touch.

 

"But you're unhappy with my choices, Tarlys or not."

 

"That's true."

 

"Is that what you came here to do? Lecture me about things I can't change?"

 

"No," he admitted. "But you asked why I looked upset. And you know I'm shit at lying."

 

Somehow, his admission managed a rise out of the queen, who began to chuckle. "That's true," she said. "Though, what exactly _did_ you come here for, Jon?"

 

"To check if you were here. I was worried."

 

Daenerys sighed, "Are we ever going to talk through what happened between us? Or keep pretending as if it never happened?"

 

"I'm _not_ pretendin'," he insisted.

 

"That's how it feels," she uttered so low that Arya clenched her eyes again, in the hope that it would heighten her hearing. "If you can't handle the truth, just say it. Tell me, now."

 

"It's not you," he assured her. "It was _never_ you."

 

"If it's not me, then what is it, Jon?"

 

"I feel like a ghost. Like I've died, and now I've come back to life as an _impostor_."

 

"That's a shit analogy for a man who _has_ died and come back to life."

 

 _What?!_ Arya thought, fighting the urge to gasp. A strange feeling formed in the pit of her stomach, a mixture of worry and fear, churning away.

 

"You know what I mean," he groaned. "My whole life has been a lie."

 

"It hasn't been, though," she assured him. "Only your name," she said, moving closer to where he'd stood. "Besides, you're _so_ shit at lying that your life _must_ be true."

 

Laughter spilled from Jon's mouth as he brought a hand to his forehead in embarrassment. Even his cheeks had flushed. Daenerys laughed along with him, raising a hand to cup his cheek.

 

"See, this is why you shouldn't avoid me."

 

"Why's that?" he asked, his laughter finally dying down as he raised a hand to brush a few silver strands from her similarly-flushed cheek.

 

"Because I can make you smile. And laugh. You haven't smiled in _ages_."

 

"Ages?" he asked, skeptical. "It hasn't been _that_ long."

 

"Not since the first time you laid eyes on Arya."

 

Hot tears began to well in Arya's eyes upon hearing the confidence in the queen's words. Her brother had meant the world to her, and she remembered how happy she'd been to finally see him again after what felt like a lifetime. _Never again_ , she swore to herself, _never again will I go so long apart from Jon_.

 

"Maybe so," Jon finally agreed, leaning down to kiss his queen. A careful, measured kiss. A romantic kiss, rather than a lustful one. _Jon had found love_.

 

As Arya turned away, she felt a weird stinging sensation in her chest. Her mind flooded with unwanted memories of how Gendry's lips felt against hers, almost twitching in response. She pursed her mouth shut, stubbornly willing the sensation away, unsure whether she had even been ready to forgive him. _He's done nothing wrong_ , her traitorous inner-voice reminded her. _Ugh_.

 

The familiar sound of muffled footfalls returned, this time they were _many_ , and much heavier than the queen's. Arya ducked behind the ironwood trunk once more, shielding herself as best she could from both angles. Drogon gave a warning snort as several men approached his mother. Arya recognized only one of them—the once-exiled knight, Ser Jorah Mormont.

 

"Your Grace," he declared with a bow, keeping a safe distance between them, with what looked like Dothraki men at his back. "I'm afraid I come bearing bad news."

 

"What is it, Ser?"

 

The man sighed, "Scouts have captured a couple spies south of the castle. They've been restrained and are being held in the great hall if you wish to question them."

 

Jon and Daenerys exchanged a worried look. The queen turned to her dragon, whispering something in an unfamiliar language. Drogon chuffed once more, turning his colossal head from side to side as if he'd understood her words. _Perhaps he had_ , she thought.

 

"Very well," she said to Jorah, gesturing for him to lead the way as she and Jon marched alongside her men and out of the godswood. Arya waited behind them for several moments before making her own way toward the hall, the curiosity slowly burning her from the inside out.

 


	14. The Choice is Yours

Even with his face buried in a towel to wipe the sweat away, Gendry could feel someone eyeing him. It was midday already, and interruptions had been rare this time of day. As soon as he lowered the towel, it was no surprise to see Ser Davos. _Who else?_ Gendry wondered to himself. _Certainly not Arya, she's still pissed at you_.

 

"What is it this time?"

 

"The queen requests your presence in the hall."

 

The few at the forge who spoke the common tongue gave the pair curious looks, likely wondering what the queen might want with the resident _blacksmith_ , of all people.

 

"Me? If you were _anyone_ else, I'd assume you were mistaken," Gendry said, still dabbing the sweat away from his neck.

 

"Yes, you."

 

"What in the seven hells does she need _me_ for?"

 

"I can't say, but she seems to be gathering up the lords in the hall for-"

 

"I'm not a lord," he interrupted.

 

" _No_. That you're not," Davos agreed. "As I was saying," he continued, cocking an eyebrow, "They've captured some men somewhere south of the castle, presumed to be spies or scouts."

 

Gendry scratched his forehead. "Well, that makes even less sense," he griped, though part of him was happy at the opportunity to take a break and give his aching hands a rest.

 

"Come on, then. Best not to keep Her Grace waiting."

 

Once inside, Gendry noticed the room had been somewhat rearranged, leaving a small clearing between the usual dinner tables. Some of the queen's men directed him and Davos to a pair of open seats on a bench facing the newly open area. Examining the room further, Gendry saw several familiar faces—at the high table sat the Starks to one side of the queen, and the Lannisters to the other. Even Sandor stood against the far wall with Brienne to his side, and beside giantess was her squire, Podrick.

 

After a few moments of little more than exchanged shrugs and bewildered gazes, a pair of shackled men were escorted inside, roughly handled as they were pushed down onto rush-covered clearing.

 

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains," Missandei coolly said. "Please state your names."

 

The men only recoiled in response. They wouldn't make their capture an easy venture for the dragon queen, Gendry guessed. Ser Jorah moved forward, leaning down to inspect them, going so far as to grasp the face of the younger of the two men, turning it from side to side, letting the candlelight fall over his features.

 

"I believe I recognize this one, Your Grace. They're with the Golden Company," he said, letting go of the young man's jaw with a light shove. "He was just a boy when he joined."

 

"So Cersei Lannister has hired herself an army of sellswords, after all? No matter," the queen said, dismissing the information with a wave of her hand. "I assume the pair of you came here for privileged information about me as well as my allies, so let us get _acquainted_."

 

Daenerys sank into her chair, pawing at the armrests in true regal fashion. The room had been so quiet, the tapping of her fingernails against the wood echoed against the stone walls.

 

"Take a good look around. Tell me what it is, exactly, you'll be reporting back to your commander?"

 

Again, the inquiry was met with nothing but silence.

 

"Speak to your queen," Grey Worm barked, his pronunciation naturally intimidating.

 

"She's not our queen."

 

"Am I _not?_ " Daenerys leaned forward, cocking a sarcastic eyebrow. "Tell me, what is it you see when you look around?"

 

The Unsullied commander struck his polearm against the tile, rattling the younger, dark-haired captive. "Foreign armies," he said, flinching.

 

"So says the foreign army..." uttered the queen with a roll of her eyes.

 

"We're not foreigners. We're _exiles_."

 

"That makes three of us! Or well, _four_ , if you count Ser Jorah, here," she said, gesturing toward the loyal knight. As he exchanged a quick smirk with his queen, Gendry couldn't help but notice Jon shifting uncomfortably, furrowing his brow as he tried to divert his gaze from the older knight.

 

"It's true my armies are comprised of dark-skinned men who look, sound, and act differently than what Westeros is used to. But their desires are no different than yours or mine. The men who follow me do so of their own free will. The Dothraki chose to follow the woman who emerged, _unscathed_ , from the very flames that claimed their Khals. I bought freedom for the Unsullied, and in return, they fight by my side to free those who are slaves in all but name."

 

The queen's sentiment caused several northern lords to slump, all but little Lyanna Mormont.

 

"Gendry, would you mind standing?" she asked.

 

Stomach having plummeted, Gendry looked to Arya to examine her expression, finding only a mirror of his own confusion. As they exchanged worried glances, next to him, Ser Davos delivered a gentle nudge to his arm. The weight of dozens of curious gazes fell on the filthy blacksmith as he awkwardly stood at the queen's request.

 

"Do you recognize this man?"

 

"No," the younger captive offered.

 

"No, _Your Grace_ ," Grey Worm corrected him.

 

"This is the last surviving son of Robert Baratheon," Daenerys continued. "The _last_ , as the illborn son of the woman who bought your services murdered all of his brothers and sisters. Why? Because a bastard born to Robert Baratheon is more legitimate than Cersei Lannister, or either of her bastard children who sat the throne."

 

A sharp pain pierced right through Gendry upon hearing the revelation—a sudden rush of mourning for the faceless children who shared his blood, whose lives were unjustly taken. His mind involuntarily painted images of black-haired babes hunted down by the very same goldcloaks that would've murdered him, too, had it not been for the Night's Watchman Yoren. Somehow having no family to speak of had been an easier truth to digest.

 

"And yet, the Usurper king's son willingly sided with me," the queen continued, leaving Gendry no time to further mourn. "This man went beyond the Wall to face the dead, himself. And here he stands, helping to arm my _foreign soldiers_ with the only weapons proven to kill wights."

 

Daenerys then offered Gendry a nod, which somehow seemed to encapsulate condolences as well as permission to sit back down. Feeling as though the blood had since left his body, he lowered himself back to his seat, looking just as emotionally gutted as he felt.

 

"To my left, the last surviving kin to Cersei Lannister, her brothers Tyrion and Ser Jaime," she continued, presenting the pair of men with a wave. "Tyrion, whose head she requested in exchange for _payment_ , willingly came to me, and now serves as my Hand. His brother Jaime, the _Kingslayer_ , saw fit to leave his treacherous sister to fight for me, even though by all logic, we should be mortal enemies. Yet here we sit, working toward the same end."

 

Daenerys padded the point with silence, giving the two unwelcome guests time to absorb the political implications.

 

"To my right are the last three children born to the honorable Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, who was unjustly executed by the Lannisters," she said, extending an arm past Jon, gesturing to the siblings that sat in a row beside him. "Lord Stark's father was brutally murdered by my own father, the _Mad King_. The Starks have even less reason to offer seats at their high table to kin of two houses who betrayed their loyalty."

 

Frustratingly, the men kept their silence, inciting the queen further. Her face lined with impatience, Daenerys rose from her chair, clasping her hands together elegantly before her as she moved from behind the cramped table.

 

"Might I ask who founded the company which employs you?"

 

Grey Worm struck his polearm into the stone again, the force sending rushes into the air and rattling the men into providing a quick answer.

 

"Aegor Rivers."

 

"My blood ancestor," she simply said. "But not _just_ mine."

 

Curiously, Jon struck the table with a lead fist, looking deadly serious as he gave his queen a cautionary look. Disregarding his wordless plea, the queen continued, "You sit not only in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of King Aerys the Second, but in the presence of the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms—Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar of House Targaryen, and Lyanna of House Stark."

 

As the queen presented her presumed lover, Jon Snow, the room broke into a series of hurried and exasperated whispers. Stealing another glance of his lady—large grey eyes had doubled in size as Arya's fingertips kneaded her forehead, stunned. Jon's reaction all but confirmed the truth—though he tried to disguise his anger, it was of little use—he met the queen's gaze with a deep scowl, fighting the urge to confront her. Daenerys, however, hadn't even flinched. _What in seven hells_ , Gendry thought to himself.

 

"Whisper all you like, my lords," she raised her voice above the sudden commotion. "But bear in mind that your honorable Lord Eddard Stark knowingly harbored a Targaryen boy under his roof at the risk of his own life and the lives of his entire family. Jon Snow, the man you crowned King in the North accomplished everything he has _because_ of Ned Stark's protection."

 

Arya had since turned to Sansa, both girls whispering amongst themselves. The redheaded girl looking particularly upset by the public revelation, whereas Arya attempted to calm her down. Questions kept piling in Gendry's head, one after the other. _Was Jon really a Targaryen?_

 

"Do you know what Jon Snow's first reaction was upon learning his true identity? _Anger_. Anger that his father would put those he loved most in danger. He is still the King you chose, and he's still every bit a Stark as he _ever_ was."

 

"This must be a trick," the older captive spoke for the first time. To Gendry, he both looked and sounded a bit like Ser Jaime.

 

"It just so happens we have a resident _greenseer_ , Lord Brandon Stark," she said, motioning toward the boy, who happened to be the only person in the hall who'd been utterly void of any reaction or surprise, his face a blank canvas.

 

 _"Horseshit_ ," the man spat, futilely struggling against his shackles.

 

"Lord Brandon, would you mind showcasing your gifts for these men?"

 

Around Winterfell, it was no secret Brandon Stark possessed an uncomfortable body of knowledge regarding events of both past and present. Gendry didn't ask many questions about it—mostly for lack of time. Though, this would be the first time he'd see the boy in action.

 

Reluctantly, Sansa rose from her chair, giving the queen a sidelong glare as she helped to wheel Brandon to the roaring fireplace just behind the high table. Several moments passed with the entire room bound, awaiting whatever proof Brandon Stark might've come up with.

 

"Have you found anything useful?" the queen asked after Sansa returned her brother to his spot at the high table before taking her seat.

 

"Their names are Ormond and Ronel," he flatly stated.

 

"Are these your names?"

 

The younger man hesitantly nodded.

 

"Do you require more proof that Lord Brandon can see anything he so chooses in the flames?"

 

Yet more aggravating silence was provided to the dragon queen.

 

"Very well," she said. "Brandon, might you have gleaned anything else of these men?"

 

The boy looked down at his lap briefly before meeting the eyes of the captives, one after the other. "Ronel begged to be paired with Ormond for this mission—because he's in love with him."

 

A few chuckles were had at Ronel's expense, most notably from Ser Jaime's companion, Bronn. Gendry guessed Ronel was the younger of the two men, judging by his deep flush and sudden grimace.

 

"You can't _possibly_ know what's in his head," Ormond cried out, before looking at his young comrade with sheer disgust.

 

Ronel, however, never bothered to lift his head after having been outed to a room full of several of the most powerful people in Westeros. " _It's true_ ," he whispered. Gendry might not have heard it, had he not been seated so close to them.

 

"There you have it. The Starks have the full support of the Arryns, Targaryens, the majority of the Greyjoys and Lannisters, as well as the last surviving man with Baratheon blood. Not to mention a greenseer and dragons at their disposal. Cersei Lannister has nothing but a debt to the Iron Bank. If you wish to fight for the same Westeros that banished you from its realm, then run back to the Usurper and prepare to face my dragon fire. If you wish to be welcomed into a _new_ Westeros, fight by my side and be rewarded for your loyalty. The choice is yours."

 

With that, Daenerys was escorted from the hall by several guards, leaving behind all of her advisors, most notably Jon Snow, or— _Aegon Targaryen?_ Shaking his head, Gendry tried to make sense of the surreal revelation.

 

As a pair of Unsullied guards helped the men to their feet, Ser Jorah intervened. "The two of you will spend the night in a cell to consider the queen's kind offer. In the morning, you will be released, free to report back to your commander," the knight informed them.

 

"You expect me to share a cell with this _sword swallower_?"

 

The words seemed to cut through Ronel like a dagger. To Gendry, the young man seemed more perturbed by his companion's repulsion than he had been by being taken prisoner.

 

Ser Jorah ignored the obviously ridiculous question as he helped escort the shackled men from the hall. As the bodies trickled out of the exit, a heavy clap struck Gendry's shoulder, startling him. He turned, not at all surprised to see it had been Ser Davos.

 

"You couldn't have just went with _Clovis_ , could you?"

 

Gendry cringed, "Came over here hopin' I'd admit you were right, did you?"

 

"Not exactly," he said. "Just to remind you to listen to me next time."

 

With that, Davos wandered toward the exit, disappearing from sight. Arya had left, too, without his even having noticed. Gendry waited a few moments for the crowd to further disperse before making his way back to the forge.

 

Right outside, the weight of another heavy hand fell on his shoulder. As he spun this time, he was surprised to see the former King in the North.

 

" _Oh-_ " Gendry said, startled, "Jon, _er_ , Aeg-"

 

" _Just_ Jon," he interrupted, echoing the preference he'd already made clear the _last_ time they spoke.

 

" _Right_."

 

"I wanted to apologize for what happened in there."

 

"What d'you mean?"

 

"It's because of an argument I had with Arya that Daenerys learned of your bastardy. In the heat of the moment it slipped, and I had no idea she'd say—well, _any_ of that in there."

 

"It's alright, Jon."

 

"It's _not_. You trusted me with that information," he said, a bit too passionately, perhaps channeling his own sense of betrayal.

 

"I did. And you trust Daenerys, so why shouldn't I?"

 

Jon's only reply had been something between a scoff and a smirk, his dark eyes looking almost black in the poor light of the overcast sky.

 

"Everything she said was true—I _am_ Robert Baratheon's only surviving son and I _did_ join her side by choice. If voicing that garners more trust in her cause for those who supported my father, then I'm glad to be of help."

 

Drawing his eyebrows together, Jon considered. "You're right," he said in something of a daze, as he began walking away from the smith.

 

"Jon?" Gendry called after him.

 

"Yeah?" he asked as he turned back around.

 

"Happen to know where your sister went?"

 

Jon raised an eyebrow in a playful warning before answering, "I think she's with Sam."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! To all my loyal readers - Sorry for the delay on this chapter. In fact - I did not edit it or re-read it as much as I normally would just for the sake of getting it out quicker! That being said if you spot any mistakes don't be afraid to let me know so I can fix 'em!)
> 
> Though I had most of the dialogue pre-written - the reveal had a much more comedic spin which just did not jive with the rest of the chapter so it needed a TON of reworking, unfortunately! I am hoping to get the next couple of chapters out much quicker, but every time I try to make a promise to my readers, some other aspect of my personal life falls apart. All I can say is thank you for your patience and for those of you who leave me reviews - thanks for all the kind reviews/comments! I'm so excited about where I'm taking this fic - and I know I've said this over on Tumblr but I don't think many people saw it: I'm going to make my "War for the Dawn" very weird - Just a heads up, lol!
> 
> Spoiler warning(?) (but not really since it was promised from the beginning) - To the guest reader who noticed a lack of Gendrya smut as of late - I hear you. It's coming very soon! Chapter after next!


	15. She Wants to Break the Wheel

From the highest available vantage point inside the great keep, Arya spied the grounds below. Horses were being escorted from the west and south gates and into the godswood. A pair of green wings flapped from a clearing inside, perhaps in protest, and she wondered how many of these horses would meet their ends as dragon feed. Surely, they wouldn't be much help in the snow, anyway. _What a mess_ , she thought.

 

Sansa had gone missing shortly after the impromptu interrogation. Arya hadn't looked very hard for her, either, assuming she'd sought out Tyrion Lannister, who, _hopefully_ , had been busy explaining his queen's actions. Just when Arya was beginning to connect with Daenerys, she goes and pulls such a stunt. Jon had been safe for now. But in the coming days, Arya would surely have her work cut out for her. Somehow managing to lend help to both Sam and Bran, as well as trying to watch her brother's back. The Northern lords had already been on edge since learning he'd bent the knee—and so she assumed they'd feel personally slighted by the revelation, just as Jon had.

 

As if her thoughts had the power to summon—she heard her brother's unmistakable rasp as he entered the stairwell at the end of the hallway. Quickly, she leapt into a darkened alcove, paying no mind to the cobwebs weaving their way through what little hair she'd left untied.

 

Two sets of swift, angry footfalls pounded their way across the tile. Somehow, her brother had managed to single out the queen amidst the commotion happening at ground-level. From her brief glimpse, his skin looked flushed with anger, though his face, void of all expression. They'd walked straight to Jon's private chamber a bit further down the hall, and once inside, Arya tiptoed her way down, unable to resist the urge to eavesdrop.

 

The door remained wide-open as she pressed herself flat against the wall just outside.

 

Silence.

 

After a moment, the queen sighed, "I apologize for not consulting you first, but time is of the essence."

 

"Indeed it is, Daenerys," his voice was low, level. "You know what's comin' for us, you've seen it."

 

"You're so fixated on your dead army that you forget we've got a Southern threat to deal with, as well, Jon. And they're actively sending scouts. Ser Jaime was telling the truth—the Golden Company will be on the march. Sooner rather than later, we can't ignore it."

 

"And you think my true name changes _any_ of that?"

 

"Ser Jorah said-"

 

Jon scoffed.

 

"What?" she asked.

 

"Do you mean to tell me _Ser Jorah_ coerced you into going behind my back..."

 

"Don't be unreasonable, Jon," she said, cutting him off.

 

He laughed. A mocking laugh. "I see the way he looks at you."

 

"Yes. And he sees the way I look at _you_."

 

"Exactly."

 

"I told you not to be unreasonable."

 

" _Me?_ You're the one who might've ensured a second mutiny against me."

 

 _A second mutiny?_ Arya thought, feeling her blood run cold as she listened in.

 

"You think I'd make _any_ decision that would put you in danger, Jon Snow? I've been here for days now, and I can tell that no matter what I do or say, your northern lords aren't going to budge. They've made up their minds about me long before I ever set _foot_ in Westeros."

 

"That's not... _entirely_ true."

 

"Oh, _but it is_ ," she sneered. "And perhaps you're right to be scared of a mutiny—they're so flippant. I don't know how you stand them."

 

"They're scared."

 

"They're _not_. They hardly believe you."

 

"Sounds familiar," he said, a smirk shaping his words this time.

 

"I have half a mind to take offense to that, my love. Lest you forget I risked four hides for yours."

 

"Not just mine."

 

"For _yours_ ," she insisted. "And I came back one short."

 

"I'm sorry, Dany," he said after a moment.

 

"What have your lords risked for you, exactly?"

 

Silence.

 

"As I was saying," she continued, "Ser Jorah was with the Golden Company for a time. While he can't account for the personal desires of _all_ the men—most want to come home, reclaim what they've lost. Several others still feel ties to those Blackfyre roots. It's a longshot, sure. But what I have to offer outweighs gold. Unbreakable contracts _beg_ to be broken."

 

Jon sighed, "You're right. If we dismiss the Southern threat, they could take us by surprise when we least suspect."

 

"Part of me wishes they _would_. I can't imagine they'd target the living when confronted with the faces of the dead. We could use the help," she laughed.

 

Jon didn't laugh.

 

"Try not to worry. I'd like to see your fickle lords even attempt to rebel against you. I _dare_ them to try something. As do my men. As does _Drogon_."

 

Still, he remained silent for another moment.

 

"Speaking of which," he finally said. "I need to talk to Sam."

 

" _Right_."

 

Without another word, Jon began moving toward the door. _Shit_ , Arya panicked, jumping from the wall and landing silently on her feet. She began to sprint toward Sam's room—the place she should've long since reported to. From behind her, a man cleared his throat. Stopping in her tracks, she turned to see two of the queen's Dothraki guards eyeing her suspiciously.

 

"Arya?" Jon asked as he and the queen emerged from his chamber.

 

"Jon," she likewise cleared her throat.

 

"I thought you were with Sam?"

 

"I'm headed there now," she explained.

 

"Ah," he furrowed his brow suspiciously. "Me, too. I'll walk with you."

 

Daenerys gave her lover one last look of longing before slipping between her guards and heading toward the stairwell. Arya shivered as she fell in line beside her brother, matching her footsteps to his hurried gait.

 

"Are you unhappy with the queen?" she quietly asked.

 

Using all of his breath to heave another sigh, he answered, "No. She's impulsive, but that's what makes her so successful."

 

"I know she'd never let anything happen to you."

 

Jon said nothing. Though when she looked over, she saw the hint of a smirk on his lips.

 

"But what about Gendry?"

 

"The queen admires Gendry."

 

" _She does?_ "

 

"Don't tell me you doubt it. He's down at the forge before anyone else each mornin', doing his best to keep the others in line. And they listen to him, even though over half the men don't even speak the same language."

 

Arya smiled.

 

"Her actions may be shocking but often, her motives are not. I wouldn't worry about his safety. She knows he's not his father, just as she isn't hers."

 

"Good. Because I'll have to extend myself to protect _you_ from now on, it seems."

 

He laughed, "I don't need you to protect me."

 

Stretching her arm out in front of his chest, she halted her brother. He raised his brow in confusion, "What is it, Arya?"

 

"Did something happen to you, Jon?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"I overheard you," she admitted with a sigh. "Something about a mutiny."

 

Shifting uncomfortably, he avoided her gaze before carefully choosing his answer, "I _will_ tell you, Arya. But now is not the time."

 

Unable to hide her disappointment, she nodded along. They resumed their walk in silence.

 

The door to Sam's room had been left open for her, so Arya entered, and immediately went to retrieve the book she'd last been thumbing through. Her brother wandered in after a moment, much to Sam's surprise.

 

"It's good to see you, Jon," Gilly said, bouncing baby Sam on her hip.

 

"You, too, Gilly," he said before scrunching his face up uncomfortably. Jon took a seat at the edge of their bed, not far from where Sam kept busy, toiling away amidst a scattering of books and scrolls.

 

"I need to talk to you, Sam."

 

Gently, his friend set his quill between the pages of one of his stolen, tattered books. With glistening eyes, he met Jon's reluctant gaze, "I think I know why you're here."

 

" _You do?_ "

 

"It's my father, isn't it?"

 

Taking a long drag of air, Jon clenched his eyes tightly closed, as if building up to a confirmation.

 

"It is," Sam sighed, cutting in before giving his friend a chance to explain. "I know what he did. And what happened as a result."

 

"How do you know?"

 

The portly man looked down catching a tear with his index finger. Jon looked positively gutted as he watched his longtime friend wipe away his tears.

 

"Bran?" Arya whispered.

 

Nodding his head, Sam confirmed her suspicions.

 

"I'm so sorry, Sam," Jon offered breathlessly.

 

"I'm sorry, too," he said. "For the Tyrells, for the men at Highgarden, for my mother and sister above all. All for the sake of _Cersei Lannister_."

 

Several moments passed between the four of them, with only the happy coos of an innocent child to cut the silence—a sweet, blissful ignorance Arya almost envied.

 

"I thank you for thinking of me, Jon, but I don't intend to keep you any longer than necessary. What's done is done."

 

Jon rose to his feet, standing still as a statue.

 

"She wants to break the wheel," he offered with a whisper. "The wheel that should cause a man to betray not only the house he was pledged to, but his lifelong friend. To crush this endless cycle of violence once and for all."

 

Sam nodded solemnly.

 

"A world worthy of our children," Jon said, quieter still, as he nodded toward the baby at Gilly's hip.

 

Arya's gaze fell to the floor as her brother moved toward the open doorway, his cloak pushing forward a gust of cold air. _His children_ , she couldn't help but ponder, feeling an ache of grief within her chest, knowing perhaps he wouldn't live long enough to become a father, though she could think of few better suited as such. She imagined her brother's face, lined and aged with wrinkles, bequeathing his sword to perhaps even a _daughter_ , the same as he'd done to her with Needle. She pictured a dark-haired hellion with the same sullen features and tangled nest of hair. _Lyanna_ , she supposed, a girl Arya might even take under her wing to train, knowing her brother would only encourage it.

 

The sentiment, the mourning for the ghosts of children that might never be, had given her an all-new resolve as she quietly dug into the books alongside Sam. _I won't let him die_ , she reminded herself over and over as the hours dragged on, page after page of seemingly useless, ancient information. She took only short breaks to gaze out of the open shutters to a blanket of white that covered the ground below as she let her mind wander. Only one thing in the texts had stood out to her thus far. A man with a flaming sword, _Lightbringer_.

 

"Are you sure you're not coming to supper?" she'd asked of Sam as her stomach began to growl in protest.

 

"I'd best stay here."

 

"Alright," she paused, dragging a finger over the intriguing text she wished to revisit, "Do you mind if I take this with me? I have a feeling about this one."

 

"Please do, Arya. And thank you for the help."

 

"You can save your thanks for when I find something useful," she sighed, giving Gilly a kind nod before slipping outside.

 

.  .  .

 

Making no effort to further feign her anger, Arya found Gendry sitting with a host of others she had actually been rather happy to see—Sandor, Ser Davos, and even Brienne of Tarth. _Curious_ , she thought, as she fought back a grin.

 

" _Arry_ ," Gendry nearly purred as he made room for her beside himself, much to the disdain of the men who sat to his other side, beyond Ser Davos.

 

As she settled in, she offered him a quick smile, paired with a nudge. "I'm surprised to see your entrails still intact, considering your _company_ ," she said to Sandor, who sat across from her and beside Brienne.

 

"I've decided to let him live," the giantess joked, however uncharacteristically. Arya was glad. She hadn't seen Brienne smile much at all, outside of their sparring sessions.

 

"What're you readin'?" Gendry cut in, his voice nearly lost in the raucous noise of the busy dining hall. He nodded to the book she'd been clutching to her chest.

 

" _Right_ ," she said, as each pair of eyes fell on her. Flipping through quickly, she landed on the corresponding page. Pressing the crease of the book down, she managed to get it to lay flat as the curious onlookers peered down at the crude illustrations.

 

"What's this?" Ser Davos asked with a heavily furrowed brow, intrigued.

 

"An Essosi tale, from Asshai. A _hero_ ," she said with a sneer, "Azor Ahai. He toiled away on a sword, tempered in both water and the blood of a lion, shattering the steel in each endeavor. That is, until he thrust it into the heart of his wife, thus forging his magical weapon, a flaming sword— _Lightbringer_."

 

"That is _morbid_ ," Gendry said with a look of horror painting his features.

 

"Sounds like a cunt to me," Sandor offered between chugs of ale, coaxing a chuckle from his blonde-haired companion.

 

"Oh, _you're_ one to talk," Arya rolled her eyes at the burly hulk of a man before slipping into a more serious tone, "I've seen a flaming sword like this, before. _Beric Dondarrion's_."

 

"Don't remind me," Sandor grumbled further.

 

"M'lady, if I may..." Davos interrupted, pinching the edge of the book between his thumb and index finger.

 

"Please do," she said, giving it a shove in his direction.

 

"I've heard this all before."

 

"You _have?_ "

 

Davos nodded, somber and contemplative. " _Melisandre_... convinced Stannis Baratheon he was Azor Ahai come again. She even had him pullin' up flaming swords from a pyre."

 

"Her prophesied hero she _abandoned_ , left to die alone in the woods," Brienne softly added.

 

"Just before runnin' to the arms of your _brother_ , m'lady," Davos agreed. "Only to find that he'd-"

 

Arya waited a moment, but Davos never finished his sentiment. " _That he'd?_ That he'd _what?_ "

 

Still, he said nothing. The vicinity of their spot at the table had gone eerily silent. Gendry's thumb brushed her hand underneath. Without meeting his eyes, she intertwined her fingers with his—his touch more comforting to her than she cared to admit.

 

"Melisandre has been whispering in our queen's ear, Ser. She said both Daenerys and Jon have a role to play in bringing the _Dawn_. If you are familiar with her intentions, I need to know. _Please_ ," she all but begged, feeling small beads gathering in her lashes. "I'm terrified my brother is going to do something _stupid_ and get himself killed, and she already escorted _one_ king straight into the arms of death."

 

" _Two_ ," Brienne said, breathless.

 

Arya followed the woman's eyes to Gendry, who offered her an expression of his sympathy.

 

"I don't know what she intends, m'lady, but I argued a strong case against her," Davos said. "Your brother was horrified to learn what she'd done to the Princess Shireen."

 

"As he should be. As _anyone_ in their right mind should be," she growled. "Does Jon know about this... _prophecy?_ "

 

"I don't believe so, or if he _does_ , he likely attributes it to Stannis Baratheon, since that's the last he'd heard of it. So far as I know, Melisandre has _not_ tried to corrupt your brother in the same fashion, and, has been banished from the North, facing execution should she choose to return."

 

" _Good_ ," Arya seethed. "I should go."

 

"You _just_ got here," Gendry said, tugging at her hand in an attempt to get her to stay. "At _least_ stay long enough to eat somethin'."

 

"Maybe later," she said, letting go of his hand before prying herself from the bench. "I need to talk to Bran."

 

.  .  .

 

Her brother had been easy to find, what with being refined to a wheeled chair. On a table not far from where he'd sat, someone had brought him a meal and a mug of ale, though it sat untouched. Sansa would usually fetch him for supper, but she hadn't returned for him, nor had Arya spotted her sister in the hall, or _anywhere_ since the meeting earlier that day. She'd worry herself with Sansa later. For now, she needed her younger brother's help.

 

"I need you to search for something, Bran," she said.

 

Not even bothering to ask what, he simply turned his head to face her. Removing both her cloak as well as her sword belt, Arya sighed. She never quite acclimated to the fact that her brother had been only a Bran-shaped husk of his former self. She handed him the book with the prophecy, "I'd like you to read this. And after you do, perhaps try to find him."

 

"Find him?"

 

"He's some hero from Asshai. I'd like to know the origins of this story, if at all possible."

 

"I will try," he simply said, his gaze already retreating back to the flames.

 

"Stop, Bran. _Wait_ ," she pleaded.

 

Again, he turned his head expectantly, offering only a few slow, unimpressed blinks.

 

"Before you go searching, tell me something. Tell me a memory from your childhood," she insisted. Arya had been convinced her brother was still inside, somewhere, and so she wanted to poke at him in any way she could, afraid the further he wandered into the past, the more of himself he'd left behind there.

 

Bran looked down as if searching for something to appease his sister's request as she settled in on the floor in front of him, wrapping her arms around her knees.

 

"Winterfell," he said after a moment of contemplation.

 

"Yes...?"

 

"I know it better than anyone else alive."

 

"Because you explored as a boy," she guessed.

 

He nodded. "It was my favorite thing to do. To climb the towers, the walls. I would keep watch over everyone below from atop the stone gargoyles. Everyone below was so small. I felt like the lord of Winterfell, like a god. I could see everything happening all at once."

 

Arya pushed the air through her nose with something of a snort. _How fitting_ , she thought.

 

"Was it just the climbing you liked? Being above it all?"

 

"I liked the crypts, too. Running my fingers over the red streaks that remained long after the iron swords withered away, the ones they laid across the laps of each lord."

 

"Father said the swords were meant to keep out the evil spirits," she nodded, indulging in their shared memories. "Do you remember Jon? Covered in flour and jumping forth from a tomb, giving us a fright?"

 

"A _ghost_ ," he said, almost solemnly. "I clung to Robb in fear."

 

"And I punched him for making you cry," Arya laughed before slipping into a melancholy. _Jon's ghost_. "What else, Bran?"

 

He sighed. _In annoyance?_ she wondered.

 

"Luwin..."

 

"Maester Luwin," Arya fondly said, remembering the kindly old man. "What of him?"

 

"I overheard him once, speaking of hidden passageways for lords to escape if need be. I asked him where, but I don't think even he knew."

 

Arya perked up, "But you found them?"

 

"The south gate," he said. "You can get inside the walls-"

 

Abruptly, Bran's sentence was cut off as his pupils flipped upward without warning.

 

"Bran?" Arya asked, hesitantly bringing her palms to the floor to raise herself up to better inspect him. Though, he said nothing more.

 

Crawling on hands and knees, Arya approached his chair, tugging at the furs on his lap, trying to get his attention.

 

"Where'd you go, Bran?" she asked of him once more, this time extending her arm to shake his, feeling oddly perturbed by his all-too-sudden slip into skinchanging.

 

Bran's face then angled downward to inspect his sister, who sat wide-eyed before him. Arya had seen her brother skinchange a dozen or so times, and never once had he _looked_ at her with those vacant, milky orbs. Furrowing her brow almost in fear, she peered into the fathomless depths, feeling almost as though something or someone _other_ than Bran had been peering back.

 

" _Brandon Stark_ ," she barked, hoping to rattle him from his strange trance.

 

Suddenly, he took his hand, stretching it out toward his sister. Unsure of his intent, she reached out to grab hold of it, but he brushed right past her.

 

"What are you doing?" she demanded, backing away from him just as he jumped forward, latching onto her neck and squeezing down on it, _hard_.

 

She tried to scold him, but no words came, nor could any breath come or go. Bran hadn't been a particularly strong man, either, so she should've been able to pry his fingers from her neck effortlessly. But his hand felt as hard and unbending as ironwood. The seconds dragged on as she struggled, kicking her feet against the ground, scrambling for balance that wouldn't come, finding only panic. Her swordbelt had been well out of reach, and even if it hadn't, she wasn't sure she could use a weapon against her little brother, anyway.

 

Her face felt hot, now, from the constriction of blood as it pooled in her cheeks, nowhere else to go. Even her eyes bulged as she struck her brother over and over, hitting him as hard as she could. She stared into the whites of his eyes as she choked, trying in vain, once more, to pry him from her neck as she fought for breath that wouldn't come. _He's going to kill me_.

 

Perhaps it had been the lack of oxygen, but Arya swore his eyes had flashed an unearthly blue. Her brother opened his mouth, and a strange series of noises echoed from his lungs, almost like the clanging of swords or the cracking of ice...

 

" _Sta...arrk_..." he rattled with a voice not his own, the staccato sound scraping against his vocal cords like branches against the window in a storm.

 

Arya's vision began to fade, now. _Is this really how it ends for me?_

 

By some miracle, the door swung open just as Arya had gone limp, her body succumbing to her brother's merciless efforts.

 

" _Oh my gods!_ " she heard her sister shriek, as the remnants of her vision had been blotted with blackness.

 

Before she knew it, Sansa had whisked herself to Arya's side. Her sister threw all of her weight into a backhanded slap that cracked right across their brother's face, sending him, and his chair, hurtling to the floor with a loud crash.

 

Finally released from his chokehold, Arya gasped for air, wheezing and coughing as her sight slowly began piecing itself back together. She caressed her tender neck as she lie prostrate on the ground, hoping he hadn't inflicted any permanent damage.

 

" _What_ in the seven faces of god is going on here!" Sansa cried, helplessly staring down at her younger siblings, unsure who to assist first.

 

Arya scrambled to her knees, helping to scoop Bran back into his chair.

 

"Help me," she wheezed.

 

Sansa quickly nodded, pulling one end of his chair up as Arya pushed the other.

 

"Are you okay, Bran?" their older sister asked.

 

The boy rubbed his head, his expression utterly pained from his fall.

 

 _Good_ , Arya thought. _He can feel pain_. _At least that's something_.

 

"Brandon. _An explanation!_ " Sansa shouted once more, all-too-reminiscent of Catelyn's in her style of scolding.

 

"My mind—I left it too open. He could see right in."

 

" _He?_ "

 

"The Night King," Bran said with certainty.

 

Sansa exchanged a worried look with her sister, "What were you talking about? What might he have heard or seen?"

 

"Just Bran's memories as a boy," Arya said with a still-scratchy voice. "And now my face."

 

"This isn't good," her sister replied.

 

"No," Arya agreed, thinking back. "There was something else..."

 

"What?"

 

"He said _Stark_."

 

"Stark? What could _that_ mean?"

 

"I don't know," she admitted. "But it didn't sound like a threat or an accusation. Well, I suppose all it sounded like was that he didn't know _how_ to use Bran's voice."

 

Sansa brought a hand to her mouth as she nodded, considering the new information.

 

"And it wasn't like when he skinchanges ravens. His eyes seemed to glow."

 

"I thought that's what I saw, but all I could focus on was getting him to let go of you."

 

"Thank you, Sansa," Arya quietly stammered. "You saved my life."

 

"You don't need to thank me, Arya," she said, placing her hand on her sister's shoulder for comfort. "You'd do the same for me, I know it."

 

Together, the siblings sat in stunned silence. Now Bran had been a danger in more ways than one. He couldn't be trusted alone with someone, in case his mind had been taken over again. Further, the Night King had successfully invaded his mind without warning. Arya doubted it would be the last time he'd make an attempt, as well.

 

"We need to tell Jon," she finally concluded.

 

Sansa only nodded before taking her sister's hand and helping her to her feet. Arya didn't let go as they walked together, feeling especially comforted after a brush with unconsciousness, if not _death_ , as they set off to find the only other man who might be able to make sense of the strange message— _Stark_.

 


	16. I Might Even Beg It of You

Arya unlocked the door to her room rather late into the night. She had been kept up with other tasks, having sat with Sansa, at a safe distance, alongside Bran as he searched through the past for the mysterious figure of Azor Ahai, to no avail. Disheartened and still spooked by a possible brush with death, she basked in the dull orange glow of her room, the dry, warm air blowing through her hair like wind as she entered.

 

"What are you doing in my bed?" she nearly shouted, without so much as considering the words before they'd left her mouth.

 

Gendry sat up suddenly, rubbing his eyes, "I didn't think you'd mind."

 

"Quite presumptuous of you, isn't it?"

 

He couldn't help but laugh, "Did someone take _your_ face and wear it around all day?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"You woke up beggin' me to undress you," he said, his words were slurred with grogginess. "Gave me puppy eyes throughout the day, then gave me your hand at supper. Forgive me for assumin' you were over your... _tantrum_."

 

" _Tantrum?_ " she scoffed. "And I _wasn't_ giving you puppy eyes."

 

"Oh yes, you _were_ ," he insisted, folding his arms and making no effort to remove himself from her bed.

 

"Get up."

 

"No."

 

" _Excuse me?_ "

 

"Go on, then. Threaten me. I know you won't do a thing about it," he smirked, infuriatingly. She wanted to smack the look right off of his face.

 

"You have _some_ nerve."

 

"I do," he agreed. "And a lot of work to do, yet, tryin' to keep your family alive. Best let me get  proper night's sleep." With that, he heaved the mess of furs right over his shoulder as he hit the mattress with a thud, further spiting her.

 

Though he intended his statement to be playful, it had struck her like a fist to the gut. She couldn't help but slip right from her combative stance, and straight back into melancholy as she remembered the unwelcome vision Bran had received of Jon...

 

When his impudence had awarded no retort, he unburied himself, asking, "What'd I say?"

 

"Nothing," she sighed, having already lost her resolve to argue with him.

 

She began to undress, unbuckling her sword belt and removing it before moving onto her cloak, reluctant to feel the chill in the room without it. Gendry's gaze burned into her, waiting for some sort of explanation about her strange behavior, or lack thereof.

 

"Stay, then. I don't care."

 

"Somehow that feels worse than you layin' into me."

 

"Now you're complaining that I'm _not_ kicking you out of my bed?"

 

"That you've suddenly lost the will to berate me? Yeah. It's a bit troublin'."

 

When she hadn't bothered to respond, again, he sighed. "What's wrong, Arry?"

 

"What sort of a question is that? Everything. _Everything_ is wrong," she said, having given up the endeavor to strip down, instead, wandering to her bedside feebly, as he swung his feet over the side to make room for her next to him. Too easily, she settled in beside him, already feeling comforted by the warmth of his body so close to hers.

 

"That's been true all this time, and you're just feelin' it _now?_ No. Somethin' happened."

 

"It's..." _It's Jon_ , her mind finished, but her tongue would not comply. "Lightbringer," she lied, bringing a hand up to cradle her neck, still suffering ill effects—the ghost of a hand mercilessly clamped around her throat.

 

"The story? About the cunt who murdered his wife?"

 

"You think it's just a story?"

 

"You don't?"

 

She sighed. "I've asked Bran to look for him, to find him. And he hasn't been able to, yet. Granted, it's only been a couple of hours."

 

"Why? Even if he found this legendary character somewhere in the past, what use is it, now?"

 

 _Because Melisandre, who believes that horseshit, went to Daenerys and told her to summon my brother_ , she thought, but still, for some reason or another, she couldn't voice her concerns.

 

"Arya," he shook her shoulder lightly, "Where'd you go?"

 

" _Nowhere_ ," she exhaled, before taking another long drag of chilly air. "You're a smith. What do you think of all the... _tempering_ ? Does it sound like it could, I don't know, _work?_ "

 

"I think what it _sounds_ like... is a terrible way to die, and the Hound's right—he seems less like a hero, and more like a villain."

 

"A villain? Even if by killing his love, he saves the world?"

 

Gendry looked away, purposely avoiding her gaze. "Even if. I could never do that to you."

 

"I might be able to do it," she said after a moment.

  
Gendry laughed, until he realized she had been deadly serious. He cleared his throat, "Well, I might even beg it of you, m'lady, if it meant savin' the world."

 

" _Oh, no_ ," she said, taking note of his sheepish smile. Placing a hand to her stomach, she felt the bile starting to pop and bubble—had she had anything to eat, it might've spilled then and there.

 

"What'd I say?" he asked, reaching a hand out to steady her. "I didn't mean to..."

 

"It's not that, or... _you_. It's just..." she stammered. _Jon falls to his knees before the Night King with a smile on his face..._ she recalled, the unwelcome vision that haunted her each moment since she'd first heard it. She lifted a trembling hand to rub her sore neck.

 

"What in _seven hells_ happened to you?" he demanded, carefully batting her hand away before drawing the fabric down for a closer look. In truth, Arya had no idea what her neck had even looked like, only that it hurt. _Terribly_.

 

Gendry started feverishly tugging at the laces at her collar, loosening them to confirm his suspicions. His eyes were already wet with worry just from the sight alone, one Arya imagined hadn't been a pretty one.

 

"Your neck is _purple_. Who did this to you?" he barked, a sudden rage bubbled to his surface, like a pot just starting to boil over. " _Who?!_ " He demanded again, this time with a shout, veins sprouting on his neck and forehead.

 

Wrapping her fingers around his wrist, she worked to calm him, "It doesn't matter."

 

"Arya..." he warned her. " _Tell me_."

 

" _My brother_."

 

Immediately taken aback, Gendry's face contorted in disbelief, "Jon is crazy about you, he'd _never_ hurt you."

 

"Not Jon..."

 

"Brandon? _Brandon_ did this to you?" Once he'd had a moment to picture it in his mind, he tried to bite back his laughter.

 

" _Shut up_ ," she said, shoving him away. It hadn't done much to dissuade him, however—he revisited her collar, moving it out of the way to further inspect her bruising now that he knew the identity of the culprit.

 

"I've seen you move, I know what you can do. Bran's bound to his chair—How could he even get ahold of you? And what in seven hells could his motive be for _hurting_ you?"

 

Arya couldn't help but chuckle—he'd been right on virtually every account.

 

"And now you're laughin' about it. Arya, enlighten me. _Please_."

 

"Bran was possessed by the Night King, or so he believes," she sighed. "The grip was not his own. You're right—I could easily overpower him normally, but his hand felt like steel around my neck. Had it not been for Sansa knocking him from his chair, he might've even killed me."

 

" _What the fuck_ ," he whispered. "And you spend your days alone with him?"

 

"No, mostly in the next room over, with Sam, my brother's friend. He's the one with all the books I've been reading."

 

He stopped to consider. "Gods, you're going to hate me for saying this but, I don't want you alone with him."

 

"You don't need to worry."

 

"I'm sorry, your neck is so dark it's almost _black_ and you're tellin' me not to _worry?_ "

 

"I mean I'm _not_ going to be alone with Bran again. No one is—so the Warden of the North decrees. Only pairs of two are permitted in Bran's company from here on out, and even then, we're meant to keep our distance."

 

"Good. I know Jon's the one person you'll listen to."

 

A moment of silence passed between them before Gendry moved to break it, "If it was the Night King who tried to kill you..."

 

"I don't know that he was trying to _kill_ me."

 

"That's _not_ what your neck says."

 

"It was like he didn't know how to use Bran. He tried to speak, but couldn't, really. And when he grabbed my neck, he was just _holding_ me there, with an even grip."

 

"He tried to speak? What did he say?"

 

"He said _Stark_."

 

"Well, _fuck_. So he knows your face _and_ your name."

 

"I suppose he does."

 

"Good thing you can change it at will. Your face, that is."

 

She smiled, "Now you're encouraging me?"

 

"Are you _kidding_ ? The embodiment of evil can identify you, now. So _yes_ , I'm encouragin' you," he breathed. " _Fuck_ , take my face if you have to."

 

The girl sputtered with laughter at the comment before lifting her hand to scratch at the scruff on his face. For some reason, she began to imagine what he might look like old and wrinkled, with sagging skin above and below his eyes, and a full, wiry beard blanketing his face, just as his father's had. The mere thought of Gendry growing old had been strangely soothing.

 

"See? _Right there_ ," he said, pointing to her face. "You're givin' me puppy eyes agai-"

 

Arya interrupted him with a kiss, then, having taken his head between her hands. Gendry hadn't missed a beat, either, his whole body nearly jumping at the chance to greet her.

 

This time their kiss as slow and passionate, rather than competitive. Just when she'd eased into it, he started flapping his mouth again.

 

"Wait, _Arry_..."

 

"What is it?"

 

"Are you sure about this? You're over my... _stupidity_?"

 

Slumping, Arya slipped right out of the moment. She hadn't even thought of it, then suddenly, there it was, again, at the forefront of her mind. _The Red Bitch_.

 

" _Ugh_ ," she groaned.

 

"You've done stupid things before, too."

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like _not_ naming Tywin Lannister when your assassin friend asked for three victims?"

 

" _Shut up_."

 

"How about rushing Sandor with a blade? Remember I helped you rethink _that_ stupid decision."

 

"Fine, I've done stupid things. Fewer than _you_."

 

Gendry grinned, weaving his fingers through hers, "You're right. See, that's why I need you, _m'lady_. I need help rethinkin' stupid decisions, too."

 

"And _gross_ ones," she scoffed.

 

He wasn't fooled for a second by her mocking, his toothy grin almost doubling in size. Running a thumb over his left palm, her gaze fell to the dirty bandage, her face twisting in disappointment.

 

"Gendry. You've _got_ to clean your wound and change these bandag-"

 

Before she could finish scolding him, he pressed his lips to the edge of her mouth, trailing kisses along her jaw before flicking her lobe with his nose. She shivered.

 

" _So_ ," he whispered against her ear, cradling her head in his hands. "What'd you say? Wanna try somethin' gross and stupid?"

 

As his soft touches had robbed her of the ability to speak, she simply nodded along, enjoying his warm breath against her skin.

 

" _Me, too_ ," he whispered again, retracing the path back to her mouth.

 

As they kissed, he maneuvered onto his knees, pushing Arya backward in order to straddle her lap. Hovering above her as their mouths moved together, he worked to unravel her bun, his hands possessively roaming through her hair, over her cheeks, and down her neck.

 

" _Ow_ ," she groaned as he pawed at her bruised skin.

 

" _Shit_ , I'm sorry, I wasn't thinkin'..."

 

Catching his wrists just as he tore them away, Arya guided them to the laces of her doublet, hoping he'd take the hint. "Just be careful," she assured him.

 

Gendry pursed his lips, sternly nodding along as he began to undress her. Once unlaced, he gently pulled her layers over her head, piece by piece, stretching the material as wide as he could as he dragged it over her neck, so as not to hurt her.

 

At first, he'd winced upon seeing her bruised skin in all its glory, before letting his eyes drag slowly over her torso. Though he'd seen her nearly-naked body a few times now, this time was different—previously his gaze had always been measured and hesitant. Tonight he made no effort to hide his desire, which seemed to permeate her with his every touch.

 

He'd even shuddered a bit as his eyes dragged down her chest as if committing the sight to memory. Under his gaze, Arya's heart began to race, her nerves getting the better of her.

 

"Now you," she said, pulling him out of his stare, and hopefully out of his tunic. Tugging a few laces free first, she started yanking the fabric up his body as far as she could while below him. Gendry chuckled, drawing the rest of it over his head, leaving him in a similar state of undress.

 

Arya couldn't help but smirk at the sight, knowing full well he was flexing his stomach muscles for her. She took the bait, dragging her shortly-cropped fingernails across his abdomen, lingering in the divots between his muscles. While she was distracted, he brought a hand to her breast, lifting it, measuring its weight in his palm. Immediately distracting, her hand fell to her side as he brushed his thumb over her nipple. The sensitive skin seized and tightened at his touch, sending small shockwaves all throughout her body.

 

Clenching her eyes shut, she felt his fingertips sweep along the skin between her breasts, before another pinch to her second nipple, her skin so taught it almost hurt. Suddenly his mouth was on her breast, tightly latched, his arms cradling her back, guiding her further down, relieving her of the responsibility of remaining upright. He smothered her body, dividing his attention between her breasts with both his mouth and his hands as her head spun with confusion, unsure how something could feel so agonizing and pleasurable at the same time.

 

The sweet ache coursed throughout her entire body, taking over control of even her limbs, and her useless back as she arched under him. Suddenly his hand was between her legs, rubbing her as skillfully as he could over the thick leather. She tried to touch him, too, but could hardly rein in control of her hands as they hung, worthlessly, over his neck as he kissed all along her body.

 

"You okay, Arry?" he asked in a whisper, his right hand still massaging between her legs, almost robbing her of any mobility at all.

 

Arya only nodded in agreement, mustering whatever willpower she could find to buck her hips, eagerly greeting his wandering hand.

 

"Why won't you open your eyes?"

 

"I can't," she confessed, followed by a chuckle that helped unrumple her face.

 

Gendry laughed at what she imagined was a sorry sight, "But you like it?"

 

Biting her lip, she nodded again, making an honest effort to open her eyes, but still, they wouldn't budge. "Take the rest off," she ordered him.

 

Immediately, the weight of his body next to her had disappeared, and his hands were tearing her laces free before he wrenched the leather down and over her legs, taking her smallclothes right with them. He even pulled off her stockings. And then _nothing_. Everything stopped.

 

Finally opening her eyes, Arya was met with the sight of Gendry standing before her and just gaping at her body, looking almost guilty. "What's wrong?" she asked with a frown.

 

"What if I hurt you?"

 

Unsure what to say, Arya remembered his interest in her scars earlier that morning. With a smirk, she nodded toward them, assuring him, "I'm sure I've had worse."

 

"Yeah? And what happened to the person who gave you those?"

 

She pursed her lips.

 

"That's what I thought," he laughed. "Next it'll be me."

 

" _Shut up_ ," she groaned. "And take those off," she nodded at his breeches, where she could clearly make out the length of his erection from underneath the tented fabric, the sight of it only heightening the throbbing sensation she felt between her legs.

 

Finally, he complied, stripping away the rest of his clothes before crawling back into bed beside her, hardly giving her enough time to even catch a glimpse of him. Arya lazily stroked the skin on his back as his hands began roaming her body once more, hesitantly making their way back down between her parted legs.

 

This time it was skin on skin, the pair sharing a collective gasp as how wet she'd become. He fondled her sensitive skin for just a moment before plunging two fingers inside. Arya cried out at the sudden intrusion, before pulling him by the neck, muffling herself with his kiss. Already it had felt like too much to bear, and judging by the brief peek she'd caught of him... it might just hurt, after all. His hips mimicked the motion of his fingers, bucking against her—the weight of his erection heavy on her thigh, surprised at how soft the skin had been. Despite his thumb swirling in search of every last nerve ending, this time her body refused to respond the same way, blocked by a sudden apprehension.

 

She curled her body into his, her left hand reaching out to meet his shaft, softly brushing her fingers up and down his length. Her touch had robbed him of his fervor, his fingers falling lax inside of her as he lie next to her, shuddering and heaving. Taking advantage of his temporary paralysis, his hand limply slipped out of her as she climbed on top of him.

 

Taking small bites from his neck and collarbone, she lowered her body onto his, running her hands along his chest and abdomen. There was an almost embarrassing squishing sound as she settled against the underside of his cock, her face flushing red as she worked up the nerve.

 

"Arya, _wait_ ," he winced, his entire face clenched, this time, avoiding her gaze. "Do you mind if I'm on top?"

 

The near-instant she said, "No," he his arms were wrapped around her, flipping her on her back. Arya's legs fell open to either side, eagerly awaiting him, half-relieved he was taking over.

 

Apparently, the new position had been enough to help shed whatever hesitation he'd had left. There was an immediate, sharp pain as he already began to push his way inside, most likely faster than he'd intended to. Arya began to pant, trying to relax her muscles to make it easier for the both of them, unsure yet whether she'd even liked it or not. He took only small strokes at first, gaining more depth on each pass.

 

"Open your eyes," she said, bringing a hand up to stroke his face.

 

His eyes uncrossed as he opened them, pressing his forehead against hers. She squirmed beneath him, unsure exactly what to do with herself, other than that she wanted to see him. Pushing through the discomfort, she wrapped her arms and legs around him. In turn, Gendry coiled his hands in her hair as they butted together, a mess of knotted limbs and hot breath.

 

Once he'd gotten comfortable enough with his rhythm, he let his hands wander over her body one last time before locking his arms around her shoulders. He clumsily fastened his lips to hers, thrusting harder inside of her. Whimpering against his mouth and doing a piss-poor job of enduring the volley of new sensations, Arya endured another confusing round of pleasurable aches coursing throughout her body. Too soon, he tore his mouth away, burying his head into her neck. Just when Arya had finally eased into it, it was over with a grunt, a few final strokes, and a hot, uncomfortable trickling.

 

Gendry was careful not to rest his full weight on top of her as he lie there, the warmth of his body near-intoxicating against the lingering, inescapable chill in the air. Arya kept her legs open, unable to concentrate on anything other than how full she felt with him trapped inside as he worked to recover.

 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked breathlessly.

 

She smiled, nearly pressing her lips to his ear, "I told you I've had worse."

 

Finally pulling out of her, he rolled onto his back beside her, groaning.

 

"Shut up," Arya said.

 

"I didn't say anyth-"

 

" _Shut up_ , I said," she repeated, holding her hand up to silence him. There had been something in the distance, almost like a scream, but it had been terribly faint and barely audible.

 

"I hear something," she explained.

 

"I don't," he said after a moment, pawing at her. "There's nothin', Arya."

 

Clamping her hand over his mouth to physically stop him from speaking another word, she closed her eyes, listening more intently. This time, she was almost certain she'd heard a plea for help. A man's voice.

 

She all but leapt from the bed, scrambling for her leathers and quickly dressing.

 

"What're you doin'?"

 

"Someone's screaming," she explained. "And I'm going to need my clothes on if I'm going to go help."

 

Without another word, Gendry was up and out of bed, fishing his clothes off of the floor and clumsily redressing alongside her.

 

"Hurry up!" she barked as she hopped, pulling her boots on one after the other before running to the door. She waited a moment for him to finish, still hearing the faint shrieks in the distance, though unable to make out what the man was saying, or if he was saying words at all.

 

Just as she opened the door, Gendry shouted after her, "Wait, Arry..."

 

When she turned, she saw her sheathed Valyrian dagger hurtling toward her, catching the hilt just in time. " _Right_ ," she said. "Thanks."

 

With that, they set off, uncloaked and half-dressed, hardly prepared to face the cold, but determined, nonetheless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this was a bit of a let down - First times are hard! So hard I had total writer's block on the last few true paragraphs of this chapter for over a week, much to my own chagrin, I assure you! But I wanted to get the tone right because this story is important to me. Gendry? Well, he'll get better at it in short order. I have a trick up my sleeve... :P Thanks for reading!


	17. I Can't Just Do Nothing

Arya had been fast, but Gendry managed to stay nearly on her heels as they ran through the brisk halls of the keep. Though they hadn't made it very far, already, he regretted having left without cloaks. Unlike Arya, he hadn't found the cold as easy to acclimate to.

 

When she stopped without warning, Gendry nearly crashed into her back, deftly side-stepping his way around her as he came to a skidding halt.

 

"We're going the wrong way," she said, turning on her heel before taking off in the opposite direction.

 

Sighing, Gendry picked up his pace until he was on her heels once more. "I still can't hear a scream."

 

"Just trust me," she barked, as they rounded a staircase. After descending a floor or two, the screams for help were distinguishable now, though still a bit muffled.

 

"Shit, you were right..."

 

"I told you," she said, taking two steps down at a time.

 

The cries seemed to be originating from somewhere below the keep, an area Gendry had neither been to nor recognized. Once they'd made it to the hallway at the bottom, it was unmistakable. The screams had turned into more of a grunting, a scuffle, and the echo of rattling of wood and metal. He and Arya stood alone, exchanging a pair of worried glances before she sprinted toward the room.

 

" _Help me_ ," a man's voice groaned feverishly.

 

Arya tried the door. Locked, _of course_. She began to unsheath her dagger, sticking the blade between the door and its frame. Swiftly, Gendry clamped his hand around her wrist in an attempt to stop her.

 

" _Wait_ ," he whispered. "It sounds like the spy, the young one. This could just be some ploy to break out."

 

" _He's going to kill me!_ " the man shouted through the door, his voice hoarse and strained.

 

Arya hesitated for a moment, considering her options. "I _can't_ just do nothing," she decided.

 

With that, the superior steel of her dagger sliced through the iron lock like butter. The door burst open, hitting the stone wall with a thunderous clap. The younger of the Golden Company scouts came tumbling onto the floor, keeping his companion at bay with a tight headlock. He looked terribly fatigued. She and Gendry had gotten there just in time, so it seemed.

 

Before either could react, the older of the two men fixed his gaze upward, his face a dull grey, his eyes an unearthly blue. Arya was momentarily transfixed—she hadn't seen one before now.

 

"Your dagger!" the boy cried, his eyes quickly spying the ornate weapon.

 

Shaking herself from her trance, Arya clutched the handle and headed straight toward the attacker.

 

" _Stop!_ " Gendry shrieked, hurling his weight right into Arya and knocking her to the ground, narrowly avoiding the blade, himself. Just as the older man wriggled out of the boy's hold, Gendry swiftly struck his boot to his chest with enough force to send the monster hurtling backward, hitting the wall on the far side of the room.

 

Wasting no time at all, Gendry dragged the young man out of the room before slamming the door shut and blocking it with his body.

 

" _What_ are you doing?" Arya cried as she crawled over to the spy, dusting him off and assessing his damage.

 

"I don't know," Gendry admitted. "It's... it's one of them. A wight."

 

" _So?_ "

 

"So... maybe we shouldn't kill it."

 

"Why not?" she demanded.

 

"Half of the men here still don't believe they exist," Gendry defended his choice as the monster behind the door hurled its weight into the wood over and over, in an attempt to escape. Luckily, he had endured the hammering easily enough. "And now they're _inside_ the castle."

 

"All the more reason we need to _kill_ it," she insisted, hopping onto her feet in one quick motion. "Move, Gendry."

 

"No."

 

"Get out of my way," she warned him.

 

" _No_ ," he repeated himself, this time with a flirtatious smirk.

 

Nearly growling, Arya sheathed her dagger, tucking it under her arm before folding them across her chest, annoyed. "You're just going to stand in front of the door all night, are you? The lock is busted, and you're unarmed."

 

"I'll stand in front of the door until you get some guards or... Jon, or someone."

 

"And what good will they do?"

 

"They'll know what to do with it."

 

" _I_ know what to do with it," she insisted.

 

"We're _not_ killing it."

 

" _You_ don't have to. I will."

 

"That's _enough_ , Arya."

 

" _Excuse me?_ "

 

Averting his gaze, Gendry couldn't help his eyes from falling onto the young spy, who was crouched against the opposite wall. He had his arms wrapped around his knees, looking downright devastated. Before Arya could say anything more, several men with obsidian-tipped spears appeared at the entrance to the hallway, fanning out to either side to allow Jon passage.

 

"What's goin' on?" his tone had been almost accusatory as it boomed through the narrow passageway. He looked immaculate in the late hour—fully outfitted in his usual leathers and fur cloak, even his hair had been pulled back and out of his face as usual, not a single hair out of place.

 

Jon quickly strode over to them, assessing the situation, as well as silently judging the disheveled state of both he and Arya.

 

"Why did you let him out?" Jon asked, gesturing toward the boy in fetally curled up on the ground.

 

"The other one's a wight," Gendry quickly explained.

 

"Are you sure?"

 

" _Yes_ ," Arya confirmed. "We got here just in time. I had to break the lock."

 

Jon faced Gendry with a glare, watching his body lunge forward a few inches as the wight continuously hurled its weight into the door. Turning back to Arya, he asked, "You didn't kill it?"

 

"No... Gendry wouldn't let me."

 

"Good."

 

" _Good?_ " his sister asked in disbelief.

 

"Did you kill him, Ronel?" Jon asked the boy, leaving Arya's question unanswered. _Ronel_ , Gendry thought, _Right. That's his name._

 

" _No_."

 

"What happened?"

 

"He choked on his dinner. I couldn't save him. He was lying there dead about an hour before _he_..." the boy broke down.

 

"I'm sorry for your loss," Jon said genuinely, taking a knee and placing a hand on Ronel's shoulder. "I truly am. But Ormond is just the beginning. There are a hundred thousand of those things headed right for us. Your queen... she saw one when I brought it to her doorstep, and instead of joinin' us to stop _them_ , she hired _you_ to stop _us_. And this is the fate of everyone if we don't band together."

 

Ronel's composure had cracked. He quickly wiped the tears away before collecting himself.

 

"Every man that falls in battle is only added to his ranks. _Do you understand?_ "

 

He nodded.

 

Jon helped the boy to his feet, assuring him he'd find him better accommodation within the castle before granting his leave in the morning. After speaking with the guards, a pair of them led Ronel to the staircase before escorting him somewhere else unknown to Gendry. Curiously, Jon stayed behind.

 

"Arya," he said, "Why don't you comb the hallway here and see if there are any open rooms with sturdy enough locks. Start at the other end, since it's below my chamber, easier to hear if things go awry again."

 

"So you're keeping it _alive?_ " she asked.

 

"For now," he said, waving her off.

 

Gendry gulped as he watched her scamper through the hallway, following her brother's order without another word, leaving him with a wight at his back and a suspicious, protective older brother at his front. He didn't know which threat he dreaded more.

 

"Sure came down in a rush," Jon said, scanning his hastily dressed form. "You _cold?_ "

 

Unsure how to answer, Gendry only shook his head no, though in truth, this area of the keep had been at least twice as cold as the floor the Starks resided in, several flights up.

 

Luckily enough, Jon smirked, much like the way he had when they'd first met. "I have half a mind to warn you about what would happen to you if you hurt her..."

 

"There'd be nothin' left of me if I tried. _Not_ that I would," he assured her brother, holding his hands out defensively for only a moment before the wight struck the door again. He clapped his hands back to the wood as Jon shook with a silent laughter.

 

Gendry furrowed his brow, enduring the ceaseless clattering of the dead man against the door he'd barred with himself. Feeling utterly trapped in this awkward exchange, he was unsure how to explain away the actions that were apparent in all the physical clues he and Arya had left from their appearance, alone.

 

"Just to be clear, you do know I'm not sneakin' around on her, right? There's no other woman, or girl, or _anyone_ , for that matter."

 

Silently, Jon turned to Gendry, answering his question with a scrutinous scowl.

 

"Jon, there are things about your sister that you _don't_ kn-"

 

"I know," he interrupted.

 

Waiting for clarification that Jon wasn't offering, Gendry pressed him further, "You _know?_ "

 

"Sansa told me all about it," he confessed quietly. "The... _masks_."

 

" _Sansa?_ "

 

Jon sighed. "She recognized what Arya was doin' almost immediately. It was only after I expressed my concerns about _you_ and the things I'd been hearin' that she confessed Arya's... _skill_."

 

As Gendry nodded along, the wight at his back proved to be highly distracting as he tried time and again to escape his confinement. Unable to help but inquire, Gendry asked, "Why _this_ room?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"You've got to have proper cells _somewhere_ within the castle walls, right?"

 

"None fit even for prisoners." Jon's gaze dropped to the broken tiles at his feet, "The Boltons left their stain on Winterfell and we're still tryin' to clean it up."

 

The information Gendry had regarding the Boltons and their time at Winterfell had been scant. There were the stories trickling into Flea Bottom shortly before Davos had sought him out, about the _Battle of the Bastards_ , and how Robb's bastard brother reclaimed his family's ancestral castle alongside his sister, an act that crowned him king. However, the few who knew the more intimate details never ventured too far into the sore subject, and it was _sore_ , indeed.

 

"In this case, I'm guessin' you mean a _literal_ stain?" he guessed.

 

Though Jon's scowl deepened, he didn't answer.

 

The silence between them had been rightfully awkward as Gendry searched for a way to fill the empty space with sound. Fearing the topic might again veer back to Arya, Gendry settled on substantiating the only rumor he'd really heard about what happened at Winterfell before the Starks took it back, "Davos said you nearly beat Ramsay Bolton to death with your bare hands."

 

Instantly, he regretted mentioning it as he watched Jon slip his thumbs under his sword belt upon recalling the memory. He turned to face Gendry, squaring his shoulders underneath his cloak, a deimatic display of warning.

 

" _Nearly_ ," he confirmed.

 

 _I'm only making it worse_ , Gendry thought. The wight hissed and grunted behind the closed door, showing zero signs of exhaustion, despite its efforts. "No cells fit for _prisoners_ ," he repeated." How 'bout _wights?_ "

 

As Jon's lip curled into a smile, it was then he knew Arya had been sent away on a fool's errand. Perhaps Gendry had even guessed correctly—that the wight would be stashed in a _proper_ cell, this time, and that Jon was merely itching to dole out some sort of needless threat now that he'd managed to get him cornered.

 

"I like you, Gendry," Jon prefaced with a furrowed brow, "Sometimes I can't tell whether that makes what's happenin' between you two better or worse."

 

"Better, _surely_ ," he wagered, defensive.

 

"Arya may be my _baby sister_ ," Jon sighed. "But she's no longer a girl. And while I'm never going to like _this_ ," he waved with a wince, "I have to admit, she could've done a lot worse for herself."

 

Gendry stifled a chuckle, wisely fighting the urge to offer a sarcastic _thanks_.

 

"Though I know she doesn't need my _help_ , it bears mentioning that _no one_ who carries the name Stark will see any harm come to them. _Not_ on my watch."

 

Thinking it best to simply nod along, Gendry silently agreed.

 

"Assumin' we live through what's comin', you have my blessing to marry her."

 

" _Marry_ her?" he asked, unable to even picture Arya wearing a dress. He began to shake with laughter.

 

No sooner than Gendry began, Jon glared him back into silence. " _Forgive me_ , I must've missed the joke."

 

Clearing his throat, he breathlessly clarified, "I'd marry her right in front of this door with that wight as a witness if she'd have me."

 

Jon squinted, examining Gendry's eyes for the truth, his rigid demeanor finally easing upon realizing the honesty in his sentiment. Despite the inhuman growling coming from the captive wight just beyond them, soft footsteps could be heard approaching.

 

Arya appeared then, looking rather unenthused as she surmised what her brother had really been up to after sending her off.

 

"Any luck?" Jon asked.

 

" _None_ ," she folded her arms suspiciously.

 

"Well," he said, "We'll take it down to the cells, then." Jon motioned for his sister to follow him up the stairs.

 

As the pair began walking away alone, Gendry scoffed, "Uh, forgetting somethin'?"

 

"We'll be back," Jon assured him with his back turned as they disappeared from sight.

 

. . .

 

Though Jon had returned with a gang of men to retrieve the wight, Arya was nowhere to be found. After expressing his concerns regarding his sister's whereabouts in the middle of the night, Gendry was granted leave to go find her, ceding the wight wrangling to the others.

 

Unsure where else to go, he wandered back up the stairwell toward Arya's room. Upon reaching her door, he tried retrieving the key from his pocket, only to find it empty.

 

" _Shit_ ," he cursed, a bit too loud considering the hour, as his voice bounced from the walls of the cold stone hallway.

 

He knocked. After getting no answer, he pressed his ear to the door, unable to hear any shuffling behind it. _Is she asleep, already?_ he wondered, bringing his fist back to the wood to knock harder.

 

Suddenly, the halls echoed with the sound of a woman clearing her throat.

 

"Sansa," Gendry jumped with a gasp, "Forgive me. I meant... _Lady_ Sansa."

 

Smirking, the red-headed girl only watched as Gendry uncomfortably squirmed under her scrutiny. His gaze might've since dropped to her feet, but not before recognizing that, like Jon, Sansa had been dressed impeccably in the late hour, not a stitch or hair out of place. _How odd_ , he thought to himself. _Does anyone sleep around here?_

 

"Gendry," she finally spoke, unclasping her impatient hands for emphasis, "Happen to know the cause of all the commotion at this hour?"

 

Despite such a benign inquiry, he felt his guilt manipulating his mannerisms, unable to tell whether Sansa harbored the same concerns that Jon had, regarding their sister's honor.

 

" _Uh_ ," he began, running his fingers through the hair at the back of his head, "One of the captives died. Arya and I made it just in time to save the other one from 'im."

 

Her bright blue eyes doubled in size at the news. "I'm sorry, _what?_ "

 

They were mere feet apart, so Gendry safely guessed she hadn't _misheard_ him, but that she wasn't sure how to take the news that dead men were now rising within the castle walls.

 

"Your brother relocated the wight to the old cells."

 

"The old cells..." he voice trailed off, her eyes glazed over, as if suddenly lost in thought.

 

Gendry went to speak, to fill the awkward silence... but stopped himself upon realizing he'd had nothing really to offer.

 

"Why did you keep it alive?"

 

"It seemed to be of more value _alive_ than dead," he explained. "If nothin' else, we can show just how useless normal weapons are against them."

 

Sansa seemed distracted, half-heartedly nodding along to his explanation, though he was unsure she was listening to the words at all.

 

Gendry tried knocking on Arya's door once more.

 

"She's gone."

 

"Gone?" he asked, checking his pockets again, still coming up short of his key. "Where'd she go?"

 

Sighing, Sansa considered a moment, "On nights she can't sleep, she likes to pace the battlements."

 

"What for?"

 

"She likes to yell at everyone below, so I've heard. Or, so the _guards_ have heard," she corrected herself with another smirk.

 

"Alright," he said. "I suppose I'll check there first, then." He nodded to the girl one last time before heading off.

 

"Gendry?"

 

"Yes, m'lady?" he asked, turning around to face her once more.

 

"You're not going outside in just _that_ , are you?"

 

Still clad in only his jerkin and trousers, he winced. "My cloak's inside. I haven't got a key."

 

Sansa reached into her pocket and pulled out a key ring, counting until she'd found the right one. After unlocking the door, she opened it and motioned for him to enter.

 

"Thank you, Lady Sansa," he nearly whispered as he passed her.

 

Once inside, he quickly finished dressing. He slipped on a pair of gloves and his cloak, sure to drop his key in his pocket this time. Likewise, he grabbed some of Arya's warmer clothing before setting off to find her.

 

. . .

 

After a few failed attempts to find his way up, and after reassurances to the patrolling guards, Gendry climbed up to the ramparts, cursing the harsh winds as they lashed at his skin like talons. Raising his shoulders, the fur trim of his cloak protected his ears from further assault from the invisible assailant as he grumbled his way across the snow-covered walkways.

 

Finally, one of the guards pointed him in the direction he'd seen the Stark girl heading, and Gendry quickly followed, unsure how she'd made it so far, for so _long_ , without gloves or a cloak.

 

It wasn't much longer before he'd spotted her, sat in the snow with her legs crossed and hanging over the stone wall, as he'd seen her do earlier in the morning. The morning had felt like a distant memory, like a lifetime had passed between then and now.

 

The girl didn't even flinch as Gendry approached. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed ahead. Once he'd reached her, he unfolded her cloak from his arms and wrapped it around her shoulders.

 

"You must be freezing," he guessed, kicking the snow away from the space next to her. Carefully, he checked the wall for ice before taking a seat next to her.

 

" _Wow_ ," he breathed upon taking in the sight just beyond the main gate below.

 

"Winter Town," she explained with a smile. The small town in the distance was like a beacon against the white wintry landscape. Smoke billowing from stone chimneys, windows glowing orange with warmth. The kingsroad had likewise been littered with what looked to be hundreds of black and red tents aglow with firelight. Strangely, it reminded him of Flea Bottom, the way everyone was so tightly packed in. The thought alone was enough to lend him a phantom warmth, unable to disassociate it from the memory of the forge.

 

"It's strangely beautiful," he noted, hardly able to look away long enough to retrieve her gloves from his pocket.

 

"Thank you," she said, slipping the moleskin over her fingers.

 

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Gendry rubbed her shoulder for friction, for warmth. "How can you stand it up here? It's freezing."

 

"I like the fresh air," she said before turning to him. "Sometimes my room feels like a kennel or a cage."

 

" _Well_ ," he laughed, "It's a fine cage, then. Your room happens to be my favorite place in all of Winterfell, m'lady."

 

"I wonder _why_ ," she teased him with a pinch to the thigh.

 

After a quick wince at his memory of what they'd done there mere hours ago, he quickly assured her, "Because it's _yours_."

 

Arya smiled before leaning into him, eyes narrowed and lips parted. Carefully placing a hand on her tender neck, he pulled her into a kiss, feeling almost perturbed by her utter compliance. Hesitantly, he continued enjoying the softness of her lips against his as he warmed his fingers by massaging her scalp, all the while bracing himself for some snide retort.

 

She broke from his kiss with an almost unsatisfactory groan, a groan so quiet he convinced himself he must've heard wrong.

 

"I don't want to marry you," she whispered in a tone too romantic to match the words.

 

Gendry drew his brows together in confusion, "I'm _sorry_ , did I ask you to marry me?"

 

"I heard what you said to Jon," she confessed. "You said you wanted to marry me."

 

" _No_ ," he corrected her. "I said I _would_ if you'd have me."

 

Arya's eyes narrowed once more, this time with irritation. "So you _don't_ want to marry me?"

 

"Come _on_ , Arry," he groaned. "First you're upset because I want to, then you're upset thinkin' I _don't_ want to."

 

"I'm not upset."

 

"Why's your face all scrunched up, then?"

 

"It's not."

 

He laughed, "It _is_."

 

Arya turned away from him and back toward Winter Town, her face twitching as she tried to smooth out her scowl.

 

"I get it, now," he said, smiling as he watched her.

 

"Get _what?_ "

 

"That you like to pick fights."

 

"I do not _pick fights_."

 

" _Uh huh_ ," he agreed, snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her toward him once more.

 

"I'll be whatever you'd like me to be, Arry. Friend, family, lover, husband, guard, smith... You choose. I don't care."

 

" _Lover_ ," she spat the word as if it'd soured. "I hate that word."

 

Gendry chuckled, squeezing her tighter against his side before placing a kiss to her knotted mane. "Husband, then," he whispered against her hair.

 

" _Shut up_ ," she shoved him away playfully before wrapping her arm around his waist, pulling him back into an embrace.

 

"As m'lady commands," he whispered, resting his head against hers as they sat together, listening to the nocturnal clamor of the queen's foreign armies weaving, like ants, between the Targaryen-colored tents that dotted the kingsroad below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever see those memes floating around? About crippling anxiety and having so many things on your plate that you end up just doing none of them at all? Me! I had many struggles with this chapter, and re-wrote nearly every part of it at least twice. In fact, it went from Gendry's POV to Arya's and back to Gendry's! What a mess! I don't usually suffer from writer's block but BOY did it hit me hard every time I attempted this chapter! For anyone curious, this chapter would've been released mid-week if not for desperately trying to get Jon's dialogue right. It kept coming off a bit too cheesy or OOC and I'm so sorely picky about that sort of thing, particularly since he's one of my favorites.
> 
> That being said - sorry for leaving that cliffhanger unresolved for so long! I'm finally done with my move, finally have internet back, so I'm hoping to fall back into the swing of things but some days I still feel like I've lost my knack for writing. As always, thanks for bearing with me while I lose my mind, lol. Thank you for those who've left kind comments during my time off from this fic and tried keeping me on the ball. I do appreciate it!


	18. Oysters, Clams, and Cockles

It wasn't the sunrise that nudged Gendry from his slumber as usual, but a knee. Arya, who'd often slept as soundlessly as the dead, was stirring beside him. He cracked his eyes open enough to see that morning had, indeed, _come_. He rejected the sunlight, however dull, keeping his lids locked shut. There was a latent sting of guilt, knowing others were likely waiting at the smithy for the day's instruction—but it wasn't enough to lure him from the warm bed.

 

Lazily, he rolled onto his side, trying his best to coax himself back to a dreamless sleep. Arya's touch chased after him—small, slender fingers trailed first down his arms, before heading back up towards his shoulder. When he failed to react, she reached over his arm and pinched his left nipple.

 

" _Arya!_ " he yelped.

 

"Wake up."

 

"No."

 

"Yes."

 

"Leave me be," he grumbled, pulling the furs more tightly around himself to emphasize his resistance.

 

This time, she plucked at the waistband of his breeches before wandering over his hips and down his thighs—her touch leaving a path of tingling skin in its wake. She pressed her breasts into his back—her cold, rigid nipples poking him. His eyes shot open.

 

"I want to do it again," she whispered. " _Get up_."

 

His body responded to her command quite literally as she swirled circles over his stomach with her fingers, stirring his blood right up. Although he'd woken with the usual stiffness that had greeted him _most_ mornings, his groin only tightened further at her insistence. _Now_ he was awake.

 

Sharply, he exhaled as she dipped into his waistband. It was an uncomfortably tight fit as her fingertips found him, brushing their way down his length.

 

Gendry seized up, sucking in a lungful of cold air as he rushed to unlace his trousers, allowing the fabric a little extra give. He held his breath.

 

"Your face is all scrunched up," she teased, enclosing her fist around him, alternating between soft squeezes and light tugging. Just as she fell into a reliable rhythm, she let go of him—her soft palms whorling all along his shaft, instead. He shuddered. After a moment or two, he felt something other than her light touches and his rapid heartbeat. Gendry cracked open an eye, surprised to see Arya closely examining at his face as she worked.

 

"You starin' at me?"

 

"I want to see if you like it."

 

" _I like it_ ," he assured her before sucking in another large breath, keeping it captive in his lungs.

 

"Why do you keep holding your breath?"

 

" _I don't know_ ," he exhaled with a chuckle, timidly dragging his hands over his face and pulling at his jaw. Something about the combination of her touch and her intent gaze had been almost too much for him to bear.

 

"I've got another idea," she whispered before pulling on his shoulder and urging him onto his back.

 

After slipping between the sheets, she tugged his breeches over his thighs. Once free of the garment, Gendry kicked the furs to the end of the bed, accepting the sting of the cool air as it struck his bare skin, so long as he could see her. Arya was naked as her nameday, her short-cropped hair in the usual morning style—a disarray of knots and tangles.

 

Wasting no time, she took him in her hand, pressing the flat of her tongue against his cock as she held it upright, running the length of the underside. She caught it in her hand as it jerked, bringing it back to her lips. Arya closed them around the tip, dipping her head and lightly dragging her lips over his skin. _Seven hells_ , he thought as he watched her, beginning to wonder whether or not he'd actually fallen back asleep, and whether it was all in his head.

 

Agonizingly, she held eye contact all the while, which did nothing to help his resolve to last _longer_ this time as she took him inside her mouth. Arya must've liked whatever reaction she'd gauged from him, as it'd only served to hasten her efforts—the friction, the heat of her mouth like an ambush he might've succumbed to, had he not remembered what it was she said she wanted to do.

 

"Arya, _stop_."

 

She didn't stop. She closed her eyes and kept going.

 

"If you want to do it again, you're going to have to stop. _Now_."

 

He twisted his body away from her, and she finally released him from her lips with a pop.

 

The pressure she'd built within him rebelled, providing an ache that swept through his whole body. He wiped the sweat from his brow before instinctively moving his wrist across his groin in an effort to cover himself up.

 

Arya batted his hand away and began inching toward him.

 

" _Wait_..." he held his hand out to halt her advances, "Just a moment or two."

 

"Why?"

 

"So I can calm down a bit."

 

" _Fine_ ," she said impatiently, folding her arms across her breasts and lowering herself onto her heels.

 

"Um, Arya?"

 

"What?"

 

"Have you... done that before?"

 

"No."

 

"It's just... you're _quite_ good at it."

 

She covered her mouth to hide a smile. "Am I?"

 

"Where'd you... get the idea to do that?"

 

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she laughed.

 

"I've seen you take someone else's face off of _your_ face," he paused to raise an eyebrow at her. "Try me."

 

"Well," she sighed, "Do you remember the man I told you about? The one who hurt little girls?"

 

"Oh _no_ ," his stomach did a flip as his mind wandered down all the paths that led only to the worst-case scenarios. "Please _don't_ tell me-"

 

"Don't worry, he didn't hurt _me_ ," she clarified. "But he _was_ a pervert. He spent all of his free time at a brothel in Braavos."

 

"They just _let_ you into this brothel? A girl? To kill a man?"

 

Arya scowled, "Unfortunately, they let _many_ young girls into that brothel."

 

Gendry scratched his chin, "What does any of this have to do with... what you just did?"

 

A smug smile spread across her face, then, dominating her features almost entirely.

 

" _What?_ "

 

"You really _are_ a stupid bull, aren't you?"

 

" _Excuse me?_ "

 

"A _brothel_ , Gendry."

 

He furrowed his brow in confusion.

 

After exaggerating a sigh, Arya spelled it out for him, "I might've _seen_ a thing or two while I was there..."

 

" _Oh_ ," he said, pursing his lips as he finally caught the implication. "A thing or _two?_ "

 

Arya bit her lip as she nodded, her cheeks flushing a shade darker.

 

"What's the _other_ thing?"

 

"Let me show you," she said before pawing her way up toward him until her body lithely hovered just inches above his.

 

Another unwanted image from Dragonstone flashed in his mind—the phantom tug of the ropes that held his wrists as he struggled.

 

" _Wait_ ," he pleaded again.

 

"What now? Need to calm down again _already?_ " she teased.

 

"No, I... _um_ ," he stammered, a sheen of cold sweat had suddenly glazed his bare skin. "Can we switch?"

 

"I can't show you the second thing if we switch."

 

He hesitated, "Will it work if I sit up?"

 

"That's how I saw it, actually."

 

Gendry pulled himself up to her headboard and leaned against it for support. His hands found Arya's hips as she climbed into his lap. Without a moment's hesitation, Arya's fist closed around him, teasing the tip of his cock at her entrance. His breath caught in his throat as she eased down onto him, so tight a fit she had to bob up and down to make progress—it felt so good he thought he might burst. _Again_. Instead, he tried to focus on the uncomfortable wood at his back, the inescapable chill in the air, the long and dull day of work ahead of him— _anything_ else.

 

He endured the sweet constriction with his eyes tightly clenched shut. Arya groaned uncomfortably after managing to fully sheath him inside of her. When Gendry opened his eyes, he was surprised to see her face similarly scrunched up. She didn't look to be enjoying the sensation as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

 

"Are you alright? Does it hurt?"

 

" _I've had worse_ ," she reminded him.

 

He smirked, raising a hand to gently stroke her bruised neck with his thumb, "I _know_. But that's not what I asked."

 

It was only in retrospect that he remembered how wet she'd gotten after he'd played with her—how his fingers slid easily inside with little resistance. He silently cursed himself for getting too caught up in the moment and rushing into things too soon again, though perhaps it wasn't too late to salvage.

 

Bending awkwardly, Gendry kissed a path from her collarbone to her breasts. He buried himself between them, nibbling his way from one to the other as his hands slipped around her body. He kneaded the stiff muscles in her back. Already, she seemed to relax, the clamp-like tightness inside of her loosening. He groaned into her skin as she began to rock her hips, this time with less pain for the both of them.

 

He settled back against the headboard, taking a moment to appreciate her svelte figure as she moved—the way her breasts bounced and swayed, the way her lips quivered as she nibbled them.

 

"What are you looking at?"

 

 _She can't be serious_ , he thought. " _You_ , m'lady."

 

"Don't call me that," she threatened, picking up speed.

 

"As you wish." Just as she raised a brow in suspicion, he added, " _M'lady_."

 

Arya clasped her left hand over his mouth in an attempt to shut him up, but he couldn't help laughing into her palm.

 

The exchange seemed to ease her further as her body continued rolling against his. He couldn't help his eyes from sweeping over her a second time, admiring the way her muscles danced under her skin with every movement.

 

"You're beautiful, you know," he whispered the moment her hand fell from his mouth. Though he knew she didn't concern herself much with appearances—that her priority had always been strength and agility—he couldn't help himself. She _was_ beautiful, every inch of her, and she should know it.

 

"Shut up."

 

"Make me."

 

With a growl, she bridged the distance between their mouths. Arya clumsily kissed and licked his lips. Something about their playful spat seemed to only encourage her wolfish qualities. She clawed at his arms and shoulders, tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth, riding him hard enough now to rattle the headboard at his back. His head began to spin at the barrage of sensations—taking his eyes right with it as they rolled to the back of his head.

 

He fell into the hollow of her discolored neck, relishing in the vibration of her throat that paired with every animalistic groan that left her lips. The pressure within him had finally culminated, his entire body contracting at once. He clutched her hips as shuddered in climax, grinding her small body onto his lap so hard she gasped, and holding her in place until he'd finished.

 

The moment it was over, Gendry wanted nothing more than to apologize for the brutish way he'd just handled her, but his mouth made no attempt to voice his concerns. Arya melted into him, anyway—her legs still straddling his lap as his seed trickled from inside of her and down the crease of his thighs. They stayed locked together, soothing each other with soft strokes and caresses until the cold came for them both, stripping away the afterglow.

 

Arya lifted herself off of him before rolling onto her side. Gendry's gaze followed her all the while, captivated by her body and the way she'd just used it, already dreaming up ways to reduce her to a shuddering mess—the same as she'd done to him.

 

"I should get to Sam's, we've hardly made a dent so far, and there's not much time left for the revelation we need," her voice quivered. Gendry couldn't tell whether it was from exhaustion, cold or worry.

 

A few moments passed, neither making any effort to move. He couldn't help his mind from wandering back to the place where she'd gotten so many great ideas.

 

"Arry?"

 

" _Mmm?_ "

 

"How'd you get inside the brothel?"

 

She turned her head to look at him, her mouth splitting with a smile, "Just selling my wares."

 

" _Arya_..." he groaned, the mere implication enough to make his stomach flip once more.

 

She let him squirm for a moment before clarifying, "Oysters, clams, and cockles..."

 

Gendry sputtered with laughter as Arya merely arched an eyebrow at him. She didn't laugh.

 

"Wait, that's not code for somethin', is it?"

 

She twisted to shove him, so hard he might've fallen off of the bed had he not been quick enough to grab hold of the headboard.

 

" _Shut up_ ," she hissed before tumbling over the beside, kicking away the crumpled heap of leathers she'd left behind the night before. "And get dressed."

 

.  .  .

 

Gendry garnered a few strange looks after showing up to the smithy later than usual. Luckily, the men at the forge who spoke the common tongue had been discussing the wight incident from the night before, rather than speculating on his whereabouts. A few of them looked downright perturbed to hear the story straight from Gendry's lips, while a couple had been left itching to see it for themselves.

 

 _Oh, you'll see all the wights you'd like, soon enough_ , he thought, shaking his head. Unfortunately, he still had no answer on where they'd taken it, exactly.

 

Just as he'd adjusted to the ambient heat enough to remove his cloak, Davos had appeared, as if on cue. Except that this time, he'd donned a disappointed scowl.

 

"I went to that Tarly boy's room this mornin' since that's where your little lady's been most days, I hear. But she wasn't there."

 

"So?"

 

"Nor were you _here_."

 

"Yeah? We slept in. What of it?"

 

"She's a lady, Gendry."

 

"I _know_ ," he said, unable to help rolling his eyes. _As if I could forget_ , he internally grumbled.

 

"You might _know_ it, but you're not actin' like you know it."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 

Davos moved close enough to drop his voice to a whisper, "The outlook may be bleak, _I know_ , but assumin' we manage to live through this and she's taken with child..."

 

Gendry's stomach plummeted so abruptly, he'd nearly lost his balance. So many other considerations clogged up his mind, that pregnancy simply hadn't been one of them. _We've only done it twice, now_ , he thought with a long gulp. _She can't be only after two times, can she?_

 

While Davos scrutinized his reaction with a suspicious glare, he didn't press the issue further. It was then that Gendry noticed how dark and sunken in his eyes were. He'd nearly looked like the risen dead, himself.

 

"Well, I found somethin' in the Winterfell library," he changed the subject, pulling a book from the inside of his cloak.

 

"Really, though, do you _ever_ sleep, Davos?"

 

"There's no time for that."

 

Gendry shook his head, gesturing for Davos to hand him the small book, "Let me see it."

 

First, he inspected the cover—blackened, likely from a fire, pages charred at the edges and yellowed with age. He flipped through them. The words were small, faded and hard to read, but it featured illustrations that looked like locations inside of Winterfell—the crumbling towers and the crypts—and some crudely drawn figures.

 

"What's this, anyway? And how would a book about _Winterfell_ help her with the dead?"

 

Davos sighed, "Might be that it won't, might be that it _will_."

 

 _Whatever that means_ , Gendry thought to himself as he gave the old man a sidelong glance.

 

"Alright, well," he sighed. "You might try again now she's awake. If she's not there, she might be with her brother, the younger one. Brandon."

 

With a nod, Davos turned on his heel toward the great keep. Gendry watched him walk several paces until a fight between two Dothraki kos broke out not far from the forge. When he adjusted his gaze forward again, he saw Davos returning.

 

"I'd nearly forgotten..."

 

"What is it?" Gendry asked, his eyes flicking back to the pair of men, who were mere inches from each other's faces, their shouting drowning out most of the other noise within earshot.

 

Nevertheless, Davos continued, "Your hammer. You'll be needin' a new one."

 

" _I kn-_ " he began to say, interrupted by a guttural cry. He looked over just in time to see the men in a clash of arakhs, one slowly backing the other toward the small foundry. Everyone in the immediate area froze, afraid to intervene and catch a curved blade, themselves.

 

One of the kos pulled a small knife from his belt, sticking it straight into the neck of his opponent. Dragging the blade down, he sliced clean through both the man's leather collar and an artery. A shower of blood rained over his assailant and the snow-packed mud below. The man began to cough, choking on the thick red liquid as it spilled from his mouth. A look of pure horror spread over his face as he dropped his weapon, trying in vain to hold his wound together with both hands.

 

The ko stumbled backward, his neck gushing as he fell on top of the furnace. The heat alone had caused his skin to pop and bubble, his expression of terror ironed smooth as the life drained from his face, leaving it eerily still.

 

Nearly everyone stood motionless, in shock at the spectacle that had just unfolded before them. The perpetrator had disappeared from sight completely as Davos waved over some of the stunned bystanders to help.

 

"His body needs to burn _within the hour_ ," Gendry shouted.

 

The men recruited to help merely nodded in agreement as they peeled the dead ko from the furnace, still sizzling like bacon. A layer of crispy, blackened skin had stuck to the stone, and a foul, sulfurous scent infused the air.

 

After another moment of stunned silence, one of the workers hesitantly retrieved the crucible from the furnace once the man's body was carried away. Gendry closed the distance in two quick strides, curiously inspecting the mixture.

 

"Toss it and start over?" the man asked.

 

"Was there dragonglass in this?"

 

"Of course," he replied, his mouth twisting to a scowl. "And now it's wasted..."

 

The men stared into the boiling liquid metal, almost alive with light and heat. Something seemed different about it.

 

"Cast it."

 

"I'm sorry? _Cast it?_ With all that blood mixed in?"

 

"You were goin' to throw it out anyway, might as well cast it."

 

The worker offered Gendry a reluctant nod before carefully carrying the glowing-orange container to a small mold of a dagger. Slowly, he poured the molten metal inside. The liquid sparked and fizzled as it slithered down the hollow knife like a snake, until it settled, bubbling at the brim.

 

When the dagger had finally cooled, Gendry retrieved it for inspection. The steel was darker, as if the blood had stained it. It seemed much sturdier than the previous attempts using steel and dragonglass alone. He shook his head as he inspected it, almost in disbelief that his gut feeling had been proven right. He got to work fashioning a handle for the new weapon, as well as sharpening the blade.

 

Already, he couldn't wait to report the strange findings to Arya, Davos, and even Jon. However, as blood wasn't a readily available ingredient, he'd use the rest of the available daylight hours on pursuing different ventures. _Maybe a hammer_ , he thought, _I'll be needin' a new one_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been one of those chapters, man. I wrote it, and just before editing it, got a wrecking-ball right to my day. So there it sat as I festered, still no clue, really, if it's any good. But I couldn't make y'all wait any longer while I fretted over it.
> 
> Also... Did I get all the details about blacksmithing right? Most certainly not. I will say I researched it. For a long time. Read glossaries and articles and wiki pages and watched videos and this is the best I could do!


	19. The Lord and his Winter Rose

Being that she'd found herself in Rickon's old room alongside Samwell and his family, the ear-grating cries that filled the chamber unsettled Arya far beyond simple discomfort. She couldn't read, nor could she focus; and she dared not close her eyes—as that had been the trick she used to _amplify_ sound, leftover remnants from the days she spent sightless on the streets of Braavos.

 

Rather, Arya let her vision blur, the dull colors and shadows around the room bleeding together, forming loose images, like water-painted figures. They were immediately recognizable as her mother, Catelyn, and Rickon. _Baby Rickon_. She had been too young to possess memories any more vivid than her hallucination—being only four years old, herself, when her brother was only a babe. An uncomfortable heat pricked the rim of her eyes, threatening tears, as she listened to baby Sam bawling, noting the slight waver in his voice as his mother bounced him on her hip.

 

Though she knew it was Sam, her heart ached for her baby brother. He was a little more than half her age when he'd died. _Died?_ her inner voice scoffed as she watched the phantom image of her mother bouncing a restless Rickon. _He was murdered, just like the rest of my family_.

 

Sansa had provided scant details aside from assuring her that their brother's death had come swiftly. Unable to help it, she thought of the fear she felt upon getting a cold blade to the gut. The way she shook, dazed and in disbelief, the way her heart hammered away until she'd lost so much blood her pulse became sluggish. Had her brother felt those things, too? Morbidly, she even considered his last thoughts. Had he thought of her then, as she'd thought of him, of _all_ her siblings, in what she suspected would be her last moments?

 

It wasn't Rickon's death she was most curious about, however. He was such a little thing when she'd last seen him—not quite a head shorter. Had he grown to be tall, as she'd wagered? Taller than her, surely. Had his hair been long or short? Which parent had he favored after having lost his fat baby cheeks—or had he lost them at all?

 

The vision dissipated, and Arya was back in the presence of Samwell, Gilly, and the babe. It looked as if his discomfort had bled onto Gilly, her eyes riddled with helpless tears all her own.

 

Without thinking, Arya rose to her feet from her seat at their bedside. After crossing the short distance to Gilly, she held out her arms toward baby Sam. Giving her a once-over, Gilly's eyes hung on her sword belt, warily, and though she might not have considered it under normal circumstances, she handed over her baby all the same.

 

Little Sam was heavier than Arya had expected him to be. After shifting his weight to find a comfortable balance for them both, she began to sway back and forth. At once his crying had ceased—big, bright eyes stared up at her as she wiped away the tears from his cheeks.

 

"There, there," she cooed, lending him a smile.

 

After he examined her features to the best of his ability, she began to hum the old songs Septa Mordane had taught her, as near as she could remember. As Sam began to coo, perhaps in imitation, his namesake softly whispered from behind her.

 

"Thank you, my lady," he said. "You're quite good at that."

 

Arya felt a slight flush in her cheeks at the comment as she smoothed the babe's hair across his forehead—his bright gaze distracting. "It's only luck," she insisted. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

 

"I didn't either," Gilly spoke up, watching the small, fierce girl with the same awe as her child. "Assumin' we survive all this and you need help-"

 

"Help with _what_ , exactly?" Arya snapped, immediately regretting her tone as Gilly cowered.

 

"With—with babes of your own."

 

" _Babes?_ Of my _own?_ " Arya couldn't help but weave sarcasm through the words. It was an absurd notion, a fate she had never once wished upon herself.

 

"It's just that-" Gilly paused. "Well, Sam told me what happened to your mother, the person who would usually help a girl with those things."

 

"Well don't worry it," she said, gulping back an uncomfortable lump that had since risen in her throat. "I won't be having any children."

 

"Why not?"

 

Arya fought the urge to roll her eyes, identifying that Gilly had meant well, even though her execution was downright terrible. "Not every _lady_ is required to be a mother."

 

This time, the wildling woman hadn't flinched or stuttered as she spoke, "Oh, I'm not askin' 'cause you're a _lady_..."

 

"You're _not?_ "

 

"I just thought that maybe you and that blacksmith boy-" Gilly's eyes suddenly flitted to the doorway briefly before falling to the floor. She stepped forward to retrieve her child from Arya's arms as a man cleared his throat in the hallway, just beyond the open door.

 

Arya whipped around, unsurprised to see his familiar face—grizzled yet kind, the side of his mouth upturned with a smirk. "Ser Davos," she greeted him with a nod.

 

"M'lady," he said with a bow, only venturing a foot or so past the door's frame. "Forgive my intrusion, but I think I've found somethin' of interest to you. I know you've been searchin' for... _Well_ ," he shook his head. "Useful information."

 

Even Sam had perked up from his desk, setting his quill aside to listen. Davos passed an old book to Arya, its pages charred at the edges and in tatters. Upon flipping through it, she noticed most of the words were illegible—too faded or too stained.

 

"What is this?" she asked.

 

"A Stark history I'm wholly unfamiliar with."

 

"I don't mean to be rude, but in what way is this useful information? At least with the dead on the march?"

 

"Though I didn't hear it myself, it has to do with the word your brother said when, _well_ , when you got those," he said, nodding to her bruised neck. Davos then stepped forward, turning the book open and flipping through it until he'd come to rest on a page featuring a crude illustration of a man alongside the name Brandon Stark—or, at least it looked like Brandon Stark, with a few letters rubbed away.

 

 _Bran the Builder?_ she wondered. "Does this have something to do with the Wall, then? Because if so, it's already fallen, ser."

 

" _No_ , not that Brandon," Davos smiled, flipping the book backward a page to an illustration of the castle. "Here," he said, pointing at its east gate.

 

"Winterfell?"

 

The man shook his head, digging his knuckle further into the etching, "The kingsroad."

 

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

 

"This Brandon was Lord of Winterfell sometime _after_ Torrhen, since the kingsroad was built after Aegon's conquest. He had a daughter, but no male issue." Davos flipped forward, past the page featuring Brandon Stark, to show that a page had been carefully removed from the book, its remnants sticking out from the spine.

 

"So she was probably married off to some lord and he took her name. What of it?" Arya liked Davos. She didn't wish to be so short with him, but now that Sam had finally stopped crying, she wanted to get to work. Not to hear about her family history.

 

"I'm not so sure, m'lady. I'd heard a tale while at Eastwatch. From one of the wildlings."

 

"Brandon the Daughterless." Though Gilly's words were soft, she spoke confidently.

 

Looking surprised, Davos nodded fervently. "Yes, that's it! You've heard of him, then?"

 

The woman's eyes flitting to the door the same as they'd done, before, prompting Arya to check the doorway, surprised to find her sullen brother looming just beyond it.

 

"I've heard of him, too," Jon admitted, lumbering into the room.

 

"Certainly not from Maester Luwin," Arya scoffed.

 

"No." A brief softness swept over his features as he paused, "From a girl beyond the Wall."

 

Jon had captured the attention of everyone in the room, then, even the babe. It was Arya, though, who pressed him to continue, "Oh?"

 

"After Brandon insulted the king beyond the Wall, Bael, he scaled it, vowin' to teach the lord a lesson. He walked into Winterfell posed as a bard who sang so beautifully he was allowed to choose his own payment—the fairest flower in Winterfell's glass gardens."

 

"The winter rose," Arya said.

 

"Aye," her brother looked particularly solemn as he agreed. "The next mornin' he vanished, along with the lord's daughter, and in her place, he'd found only the rose."

 

"Horseshit," she spat. "There wouldn't be Starks if it that were true."

 

Jon shuddered with laughter at that, "I said that, too. I'm afraid the rest only gets stranger."

 

"Well, let's have it."

 

"Brandon followed the sound of cryin' to his daughter's bedchamber, where he found she'd returned with a babe. The bard's babe."

 

"So a bastard inherited Winterfell?" she shrugged, unfazed.

 

"Perhaps not," he answered. "Or, he was legitimized, anyway. And that Lord Stark would meet his father on the Frozen Ford some thirty years later."

 

"And they fought to the death?"

 

"No. Bael refused to raise a sword against his own son."

 

"Let me guess. Lord Stark raised one to his _own father_?" Arya's voice was tinged with contempt.

 

"Aye."

 

" _A kinslayer_ ," she spat in disgust.

 

"Well, legend says he got what he deserved—after bein' sent to the Wall, he was flayed by his own lord and worn for a cloak."

 

Arya couldn't help but roll her eyes, "A Bolton, I presume."

 

Distractingly, Gilly's eyes kept darting between both Arya and Jon, perhaps waiting for one or the other to continue. As if working up the courage, she lifted her chin to speak, "He kept his skin on 'im, m'lady."

 

"How do you know that?"

 

"I suppose I don't _know_ it, but I heard he was captured beyond the Wall, not below it," she explained. "At least that's what my father said, and he knew all sorts of things the other free folk didn't."

 

"Sure he did," Jon scoffed. "Like how to appease his _gods_."

 

Her brother's comment had sent Gilly on edge. As a result, she clutched little Sam harder, pulling him closer to her chest. " _Your_ gods are no better," she whispered, turning away from him as she bounced her babe.

 

Though Jon's brow furrowed at the comment, he made sure to mind his manners. It was neither the time nor place for an argument about the validity or sanctity of this or that god. _Besides_ , Arya thought. _There is but one god, and his name is Death_.

 

"Well," she said with a careful tone amidst the tension, "I'll see if Bran can locate this... _Brandon_. Or perhaps his son. Though I don't suppose he'll have much luck, considering he couldn't find-"

 

Arya cut herself off, still reluctant to tell Jon of this _Azor Ahai_ who the Red Bitch insisted he was, come again.

 

"Find _what?_ "

 

"Nothing."

 

"All right, well," Jon said, "I came here hopin' to find my Hand, so if you don't mind, we'll be on our way."

 

"Sure thing, m'lord," the old man said with a slow blink, moving to follow Jon from the room.

 

"Wait!"

 

Davos turned to Arya, watching her curiously as she shuffled toward him.

 

"I mean no offense, ser, but you look terribly exhausted. When my brother is done with you this afternoon, you should get some rest."

 

"I'm sure you're right, m'lady. I shall try my best."

 

Arya pulled her key from her pocket and held it out in offering, "Use my chamber, if you can't find a suitable enough space."

 

Davos recoiled, throwing his hands up as if to block a weapon, "Oh, _no_ , m'lady, certainly not. I couldn't— _wouldn't_."

 

Near the end of his refusal, he'd let a faint chuckle slip, one that sent an uncomfortable spray of pink over Arya's cheeks as she remembered how late Gendry had stayed earlier in the morning. Of course Davos knew what must've gone on between them—in her room, no less. Reluctantly, she eyed Jon, who'd since palmed his face as if mortified, or perhaps repulsed. Arya cringed.

 

"Thank you for the book," she said, hoping they'd continue on their way without another word.

 

The tired man merely nodded, and Jon hadn't spared her another look. While under any other circumstance, that might've upset her, in this moment she was thankful for it.

 

.  .  .

 

Being that Arya was prohibited from visiting Bran's room alone, she went in search of her sister to join her there. Sansa was not alone, however, when she'd found her. Sandor, of all people, had been following her around like a pup, keeping that foul mouth of his shut as she blathered on about securing resources for the Northmen. _How could he stand it?_ Once the three of them confronted Bran about the bard's tale and provided him instruction on where to look and roughly _when_ , Arya got out of there as fast as she could—a bit unnerved by the sudden kinship of beauty and beast.

 

And before she knew it, her feet carried her straight to the smithy. It had been a rough few days in terms of her emotions, and she was exhausted. There was only one thing that made her feel lighter. Only one thing that distracted her busy mind enough to forget her woes, if only for a few moments. _Gendry_.

 

Arya's eyes doubled in size upon reaching the forge. The air was sweltry, moving in hypnotic waves as the heat battled the frigid air. Beyond them stood Gendry, stripped down to just his trousers, boots, and a pair of leather armguards—his hair dark with sweat and his skin glistening. The sight of him both flustered and intrigued her.

 

"You've come wearin' your own face, I see," he said, sluicing the sweat from his brow.

 

"You had better watch your words, or I might consider adding yours to my collection."

 

"What a waste that would be, m'lady."

 

"The face of the Baratheon heir? The possibilities are endless. I could even fight for that ugly throne if I wanted to."

 

Gendry shook his head, "I'm not an _heir_."

 

"Care to wager on it?"

 

Gendry straightened, extending an arm toward the great keep. "You came all the way down here to bet me, did you?"

 

Arya sighed, "No."

 

"Well, whatever the case, I'm glad you're here. I've somethin' to show you."

 

Arya raised a curious brow, following Gendry to Mikken's old worktable, where he'd retrieved from it a small, dark-steeled dagger.

 

"Careful," he said, handing it over. "I've just sharpened it."

 

As Arya examined it, she pricked the tip of her index finger, flinching as a dot of blood bloomed at the tip.

 

" _Careful_ , I said," he warned.

 

The blade wasn't quite as sharp or impressive as her own dagger, but strangely close in look and quality. "How'd you do this?"

 

Gendry then recounted the tale of the dueling Dothraki kos, and how the dying man inadvertently lent his blood to the mixture of metal and dragonglass as he bled out above the crucible, thus creating a the curiously durable alloy.

 

"So the secret to Valyrian steel is _blood?_ "

 

"Well, this isn't Valyrian steel, so I don't know that for certain, but blood appears to strengthen steel and dragonglass, together..."

 

"That's great news, then. We can arm some of the better fighters with weapons made from this."

 

"And just _where_ would we get the blood from?"

 

"The Lannisters, maybe?"

 

Gendry chuckled, wiping away another coat of sweat. "I think we'll have to make do with what we got. If we killed men to make swords," he paused to consider, "Well, we'd be no better than the Night King, would we?"

 

Arya heaved a defeated sigh as Gendry moved toward her, reaching for her collar. With a pained expression, he examined her bruises. "Looks even worse today."

 

"Well, it _feels_ better."

 

His gaze swept up to her eyes, harboring a glint of mischief that made her insides flutter. _This_ , she thought. _This is what I came here, for_.

 

Familiar with a small gap behind the smithy, Arya backed away, beckoning Gendry to follow her with merely a glance. It was a tight fit as the wooden and stone walls nearly kissed, but it would have to do.

 

After waiting a moment, Gendry obediently followed, slipping into the crevice after her. Upon getting her alone, he didn't waste any time. Guiding her by the waist, he pressed her firmly into the stone wall, his sweat-slicked hands slipping on her leathers. Likewise, her gloves slid a bit too easily across his sopping skin as they joined in a kiss. Gendry mostly held her steady, breaking from her mouth only to shudder as she groped him, or perhaps _shiver_ , Arya couldn't tell which. As she pulled him closer to lend her warmth, a ripple of want coursed through her as their newfound closeness revealed his arousal—which felt more like steel than skin.

 

"I've been thinkin' of you all afternoon," he softly groaned, and she could tell.

 

"Let's sneak off to my room," Arya pleaded in a tone so sultry, it felt foreign to her lips.

 

" _I can't_. I've got to finish my weapon."

 

"You don't have a _weapon?_ "

 

"I left it beyond the Wall. In an attempt to save _your brother_ , might I add."

 

"Fine," she whined. "Go make your stupid hammer."

 

" _Stupid_ , is it?"

 

"It is. Just like you."

 

Gendry shook his head at her, "All right, well. For the sake of your honor, give it a minute before you weasel your way out of here, will you?"

 

"My _honor_ is just fine."

 

"Enjoy it while it lasts, then." With a wince, Gendry adjusted himself in an effort to hide his erection. "I have plans to thoroughly dishonor you in a few hours' time," he warned, before placing one last salty kiss to her lips.

 

After he slipped out from their hiding spot, Arya used the tight enclosure as a means to scale the wall. From the top of the smithy, she jumped, catching the lip of the castle wall before pulling herself up onto it. Luckily, the heat of the forge had been enough to keep the stone clear of ice. She looked down to see that the men had been too engrossed in their work, failing to notice Gendry's absence, his reemergence, _and_ her skillful maneuver. She stayed there a moment to spy him, feeling that ache low in her belly worsen with each flex of his muscles.

 

Finally, the weight of her stare had been enough to ensnare his attention, and so he freely gave it, casting his gaze upward and pairing it with a smile. _Ugh_ , she groaned internally, annoyed at herself for mooning over a boy like some silly girl. Arya still couldn't discern whether her quick recess to the smithy had been wise. As she trudged her way back to the great keep, she could think of only one thing. And this time it had nothing to do with the Night King, his dead army, Cersei, or her purchased soldiers. This time it was dishonor she longed for.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So a few notes for anyone interested. This was the chapter I've been dreading for a while, for good reason. I had a notebook full of notes to make this tale work the way I needed it to. I'm talkin' years and dates and family trees and shit. I cannot find this notebook, I've torn my apartment to shreds trying to find it! So, I had to re-research what I needed to, and though it feels a bit rusty, I hope it came off plausibly enough. I couldn't wait any longer on writing this. Sorry again to keep you hanging, you could say I take this story a bit too seriously, heh.
> 
> Lastly, I know, a lot of people think tale of Bael the Bard is nothing more than a Rhaegar x Lyanna foreshadowing or clue, but here I chose to harness it and use it to give the Night King an identity and motivation. (Though I have about five different theories on who the Night King is, I admit) If it doesn't seem like it makes much sense, just wait. I have several more details to tie it together. Anyway. That's enough blathering on for now. Thanks for reading and for continuing to put up with me. I don't deserve any of you!


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